


Soon and For the Rest of Your Life

by glayish



Category: Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Bittersweet, Break Up, Ex, Get Together, M/M, Male Friendship, Pining, Roleplay, Romantic Friendship, Stage Gay, Theatre, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-04 09:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glayish/pseuds/glayish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So… Catching a break in his first big New York play would have been so much simpler if Chris didn’t have to play the love interest to his Ex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The following situations NEVER happened, are complete fiction, and not to be taken as real or as accurate depictions of the people involved. I do not personally know any of the people mentioned, nor do I have a working knowledge of the movie/theatre industry, LA, New York or um, anything. It’s all made up!
> 
> Author's Notes:  
> I believe that, for a brief moment in time, Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto had a _Thing._ In this story, that Thing became an ex-Thing. And a couple of years after the filming of the Trek sequel, that Thing shows up again in a theatre where Chris and Zach have to act _together_ together. And Things can be hard, but as they say, they do get better.
> 
> P.S. All quotations and likeness to Casablanca do not belong to me!

It always starts with a break up.

******

“Chris, just—”

Her voice cracks but she presses those gorgeous lips together to collect herself. “You can stay here until you find a place of your own, or…Well, whatever you wanna do. I don’t mind.”

Chris watches her in silence from his light perch on the corner of the bed. The bed they’d shared for what felt like just a scant few months. It’s a strange little bit of insight, like searching for a link on a very smooth chain for so long that when it finally gets opened he’s unsure of how to wear it. 

Dominique scrubs one hand across her eyes, smearing eyeshadow and mascara down her cheeks like a mask.

She cracks a watery grin. “Here’s the part where we say goodbye.”

He tips his chin and peers up at her. Knows his eyes are probably glassy, and feels utterly embarrassed but she deserves _some_ reaction. He’s learned that much.

She just shakes her head, long hair swaying like a shield as she bends and checks the luggage. Rechecks. Zips and unzips. Chris vaguely wonders if he should pack too. They’re both going separate ways now, but he’s got nowhere to be.

He hears it like thunder cutting through the numbing buzz of brain rain as the bathroom door closes behind her.

Chris’s heart pounds inside him. Each beat is a carpenter’s pick chipping away at marble, uncovering some twisted form of art he doesn’t quite understand. 

Dominique’s apartment is, like her, amazing. 

It’s filled with personal effects from their relationship which tell a completely different history than Chris’s could say. 

There are the decorative scarves she picked up when they vacationed in Greece and a collection of photographs she snapped from when they were in London. From that time they dressed up for Halloween, she saved his costume hat and her feathered mask by nailing them to the wall. Of course, as a proud South African, there are pieces from there too, of her old life strung around the room like jewels on a chain.

Dominique has good taste but Chris hadn’t completely got why she bothered so much. He chalks it up to his still bachelor-esque way of doing things. Besides, who puts so much work into an apartment when they were just going to find a house together anyway, eventually? Plus she spends most of the time flying to exotic destinations for her modelling photoshoots. She’s even due on a flight to Istanbul tonight.

Technically, all of that isn’t his place to care about anymore. He still kind of cares.

Chris looks away, realizing he’s been staring into space. If he strains hard enough her can hear Dominique’s muffled sniffles in the bathroom, but if she doesn’t want him to hear then he doesn’t have anything to say. 

Being with her has always been so easy, so very easy. It seems splitting up will be just the same.

Chris bites his lip, hard, and takes a deep shuddering breath. Gets up and drags his hands through unkempt hair that’s been getting just a bit too long. He knows better than to fight her about it. Especially now. Minds made up and bags packed, they’ve fallen into a love song’s cliché without even trying.

So Chris keeps his composure by becoming distant, jumps out of reality by furiously reading the various titles on the spines that are piled on the bookcase. They’re really the only personal touch he’s made to the apartment. Anything else felt too much like an obnoxious intrusion. He can automatically pick out which books are his and which ones are hers and realizes in a detached sort of way that this is The End.

He thought he could have made something of it all. That she was the one. He’d picked up and moved here to be with her, ready to put the work into this relationship because suddenly there wasn’t much work for him in LA.

He’d gotten used to waking up to her every morning she was home, and then when she wasn’t, he’d settled into the idea of making a life here. 

A new start for himself as a washed up big screen actor in the big apple, New York.

And now Chris Pine’s stuck here without anything at all.

******

“You can come back, Chris. You can come live here with us until you figure it out—”

“Mom,” Chris drags the word, scratching behind his ear relentlessly and then pressing the cell phone back so he can hear her voice through the receiver. Everything sounds tinny and far away since he moved. Probably has to do with the fact that New York city life is so much louder, if that makes any sense at all.

“I’m okay. I mean, yeah, I’ll come visit, but. Yeah, I’m okay in New York for now.”

There’s a pause that is decidedly parental, as if his mother is dissecting the jumbling of words he just said before peeling them back to reveal the truth.

“I’m going to call you every day until you do.” She says finally. “Or have your father do it, and you know he’ll wait until the most inappropriate time…”

“White’s Law,” They both say at once. Inside joke.

Chris laughs and rubs the wrinkles at the corner of his eye with one finger. “Thanks.”

They chat for a little while longer about mundane things. Things like if Chris is getting enough exercise, if he’s finally used to navigating the subways instead of wasting money on taxis and if he’s tried any new and exciting restaurants. He knows she wants to ask so much more about Dominique, and possibly tell him how continuing to live in her apartment means they might get back together. 

He grins and bites his lip to stop from telling her, ‘This isn’t _How I Met Your Mother._ ’

Chris knows it’s a lost cause, considering he’s actually checked Twitter and the endless stream of sympathetic tweets being sent to Dominique’s page puts things in concise 140 character perspectives.

Anyway, the thing is, he’s not in a hurry to pack his bags. Work in LA has been bad. Real bad.

Ever since Paramount pushed back the Jack Ryan franchise after the filming of the Trek sequel, things had gone downhill. Chris has Major Issues. His old agency is suing him. For a lot. In hindsight, maybe writing them that polite letter saying he was moving on was more like sending them fire fodder. 

At first Chris had thought that this was something he could deal with privately. Like, maybe hire some good lawyers (his Dad knows some people) and just push it all under the rug while continuing to work on the projects he’d already signed contracts for.

Well that all went to shit.

Turns out once one agency takes a bite out of you, you’re bad meat to the production companies. It’s like a credit rating for actors. Got lawsuits? Whoops, your movie contract somehow got ripped in two. Sorry about that.

Yeah, he has new representation but that didn’t mean they were willing to help him renegotiate terms and contracts which had the previous agency’s name shouting up warnings from the pages.

It’s all an amalgamation of clichés really. That Chris was just on his way to a massively big break and then breaking up with his agency changed everything. Now he’s kind of in the same exact boat.

It’s been about two years almost but he still firmly believes it happened pretty suddenly. Chris woke up one day, drank a couple bottles of water, minding his own business, and then Paramount announces they’re going in a ‘completely new and exciting route’ with the Jack Ryan reboot. 

And that includes the starring role. 

Okay. Fine. Chris could find something else to do.

But then the weeks became months and the months became one year and out of the blue he realized he wasn’t as big as he thought he was. Three hands? Not exactly required for the Chris Pine Experience anymore. Hell, no one wanted to touch him.

So he went back to theatre.

And theatre is good. Chris likes theatre, where high def close ups aren’t too much of a problem and watching playback is impossible which in turn makes his self-critique impossible and things become a lot less stressful. But there are only so many castings he can go to in LA where there _isn’t_ someone affiliated with ye old evil agency. Not to mention the pay. 

He had to give back the Porsche.

The _Porsche._

That was when Dominique Piek, beautiful, practical, now-ex girlfriend, said they should just move in together.

And that is why Chris is now in New York, going to casting calls on the east coast theatre scene and generally having a hard time making the tangled ends of his life meet.

******

_So I’m thinking of becoming a hobo until the final Trek movie_

Chris hits Send and the text zooms away.

It’s boring standing, waiting to be called in for readings with the Lead. He’s kind of stuck to the spot and half thinks he stepped in gum on the train here but is caught between that stage of embarrassment and laziness that makes him afraid to look. 

Bad enough the line up of male actors ranging in all looks and ages is long enough to make him edgy. It’s almost surprising, the amount of people who have made it this far in the casting process. Now they’re all squished together into one lone muggy hallway that has a low ceiling with lights that give off a faint yellow glow.

Chris was ecstatic to get the callback after a long dry spell but sizing up the competition is making things look grim. It’s been a long time since he’s been on anyone’s short list of consideration and while having a humble feeling is great publicity for an actor, having an actual humbling experience for Chris Pine is terrifying.

He should have learned to get a real job. 

And yeah, this is the line up for the role of the Romantic Interest. Also, the Lead he’s supposed to be reading with? Definitely a guy. 

Chris spares a brief pang of sympathy for the poor bastard who’s lucked out on already being cast. It can’t be fun to rub the same two lines together with a new person every minute for hours on end in hopes of producing a spark.

Chris subtly scrubs his shoe’s sole against the floor. 

His manager had murmured something about it while giving him the synopsis, but it’s not like potentially being one half of a man on man sandwich will deter him now. He needs this job. 

John Cho replies without missing a beat.

_Forget Kirk. Forget acting! Walk the earth like Kwai Chang Kane!_

Chris can hear a guy behind him playing an old Gaga song on his iPod. How can anyone get psyched for an audition blasting their eardrums out with _Bad Romance?_

Even a young girl just up ahead is tapping her foot to the beat, it’s so loud. She’s obviously a volunteer of the theatre because of the ridiculous vest she’s been given to wear. Volunteers are meant to keep this audition line organized but she’s thumbing through something on her smart phone like it’s a good book. 

Incessant toying and typing and scrolling is this generation’s prescription for attention deficit disorder.

Chris dutifully types.

_Being a badass is not an easy way of life. Hey I could start doing conventions. Think they want me @ conventions?_

John’s reply is not reassuring. 

_I thought you didn’t like getting boo’d_

The line moves up one or two spaces and Chris is close now, so close. He can’t afford to screw this up. Not if he wants to get out of Dominique’s apartment and stop making her disappointed every time she comes home and sees him sleeping on the couch.

_Haha seriously I need to catch a break!_

Some guy further back with hair so blond it’s nearly white sneezes mid-conversation with a guy who has irredeemable attractiveness, kind of like all the men in flicks from the 1950s. Seriously, who has 50s-esque good looks nowadays? 

Chris wrinkles his nose and licks his lips, feeling vaguely uncomfortable when 50s guy makes a scathing comment to Blondie but smiles so warmly it’s obvious he doesn’t mind. Line flirting? Come on.

Chris scuffs his shoe faster to try and mask the fierce speeding of his heart. If he’s not careful he’s going to work himself into a generous lather of audition bomb. 

Focussing back on the blackberry, he notices Cho’s reply.

_Dude just come back to LA_

Chris types cautiously, trying to look absorbed and yet completely at ease.

_I can’t_

But that sounds too honest and out of place in a friendly chat so Chris quickly follows up with:

_Going in now cya_

Cho takes a bit longer than before, and Chris feels just a little bit envious. He sighs and wishes he also had better things to occupy his time with so that he didn’t have to _need_ these small things so badly. 

_Break a leg_

Chris puts away his phone and stares resolutely ahead.

It’s not that he’s avoiding LA. Only that he’s determined to enjoy New York. 

The young volunteer checks her phone viciously for a moment or two and then there’s the telltale sound of a text. She shoves the little black device in her jean pocket and swings the door open to let the previous actors come streaming out. 

For a second a cool gust of air fans out across his body. He can see into the prop cluttered room hidden behind the ugly brown door just before it swings shut behind the trio of departing actors. Not one looks viciously rejected. Chris scowls.

Just then volunteer girl ushers him and two others inside with large waving arm movements and immediately shepherds them behind a masking taped line on the floor. Chris tries to stave off his feelings of inadequacy before they get to be too much. It’s an unavoidable after effect of being stuck standing next to Mr. Perfect Chocolate Skin and Mr. Salt n’ Pepper hair.

******

Susan, the play’s director, is a middle aged woman with dark brown hair cut off just below the shoulders that reminds Chris of his mom. That’s where the similarities end though, since she’s wearing a kind of cape-looking robe thing as a sweater, has elaborate nails, and doesn’t look immediately unimpressed by just setting eyes on him.

She smiles in greeting towards the group, and there’s a great sort of cosiness that overrides the intimidation factor when the room is crowded with ridiculous props and more retro junk than a yard sale. Still, Susan looks them each in the eye as volunteer girl shoves a piece of laminated paper to each of the auditioners. There’s a big number 3 marked on top of his plastic in blue sharpie. 

“Welcome gentlemen! Susan Khan, but you know me already.” 

She gestures to the man on her right while flipping quickly through the audition information that’s got their vitals. Chris vaguely wishes his manager could have left a sticky on his saying _Pick Me!_

“This is Greg Finnegan, our writer...” 

He is a very rotund man with very square glasses, but he’s got a genial olive face kind of like Emeril Lagasse. Bam!

Greg grins as he tips his chin at them in acknowledgement. “Each of you has been given a different scene for your audition, so take a second to read it over and we’ll go in order of the number— _Ouch_. Sue!”

Greg makes a pinched expression, rubbing his arm. He huffs in exasperation at Susan when she sharply prods him with her pen again. Verdict’s in. These two are freaking weird. It’s like a requirement to work in that section of the entertainment industry or something.

She’s pointing to the documents in her hand and then the two bow their heads together to start whispering in earnest. The writer’s eyes catch Chris watching him for just a moment and the corner of Greg’s mouth creeps up. 

Chris has a tiny heart attack then hastily smiles back, wide and earnest.

Susan curls over the table to start scribbling in fast jerky movements. The other two actors are intently reading their laminated lines, but Chris watches the table in silent confusion, smile straining his cheeks. 

There’s the metallic clang-click of a door opening and shutting on the other side of the clutter and curtains.

The director suddenly stops and makes a random very dramatic dotting motion with her pen and calls, “Ricky! Did you get your drink?”

“Sorry! Yes!” A gentle voice floats back in response.

And that’s when the Lead walks out from behind an absurd lilac-coloured prop vanity, taking a long sip from a luscious water bottle. 

Things freeze.

Volunteer girl leans in next to Mr. Perfect Skin and offers clarification in a whisper.

“Sue likes to call her actors by their character names. That’s _Zachary Quinto._ ”

She grins and gives thumbs up then scuttles backwards to the exit, and the whoosh of air as the hallway door bangs shut sends a cold streak of terror straight through Chris.

Shit. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chris just stares blankly. 

It’s really all he can do, because let’s face it; running out the door is not liable to get him a callback. His thumbs buzz, twitch, itch to start typing a last will and testament to John Cho.

What the hell. What the hell! Fuck. Shit. 

Zach tilts his head and smiles. But Chris knows all of Zach’s smiles, and once they catch sight of one another those brown eyes skip away and resolutely keep focussed on the other two guys behind the masking tape. 

Well, one thing’s certain. If Zach has to pick him out of a line-up of Love Interests, they both know where he stands. 

Chris bites his lip fiercely, averting his eyes and rocking back and forth on his heels. Did no one notice that awkward tension the size of a blimp in the middle of the room? No? Okay, never mind.

What the hell.

Chris makes sure to keep his eyes down as pleasantries are exchanged between the other three. Zach’s voice pours straight into his ears like this is fucking Hamlet and it’s poison. Only he’s not lame enough to start dying in the middle of an audition and all this dramatic inner narrative does is produce adrenalin, which is definitely something he hasn’t felt in a while.

And then the audition from hell actually starts.

There’s the loud screech of metal against the floor. It’s the kind of sound that really cannot be categorized as anything except for Please Stop It Now. Chris grinds his teeth, now less horrified, more incensed. Zach used to always do that on purpose.

Susan nods at Mr. Salt n’ Pepper hair, who’s got script number one, and Zach plops down on top his stupid stool. 

_“Rick, I have to talk to you.”_ Number One launches into the scene sounding determined.

 _“Oh.”_ Zach starts off, _“’Course. I saved my first drink to have with you. Here.”_

He takes another swig of water with a telltale loud gulp. Chris swallows. 

That’s not how Zach sounds when he’s actually drunk, but it’s obvious he’s supposed to act that way. His loud sardonic voice tears through the room almost obnoxiously, because it’s all so suddenly _there_. Chris presses his lips together in a tight line. His hands are sweating. 

Maybe if he slowly backs away no one will hear him leave?

 _“No. No, Rick. Not tonight.”_ Number One reaches out tentatively but is holding onto the script with his other hand. 

_“ **Especially** tonight, Ian.”_

There’s no extra stool to sit on so Salt n’ Pepper drops to his knees and lightly touches Zach’s thigh.

Chris wants to snort. It’s reminiscent of how _ET_ touches fingers with that kid. So stupidly careful.

 _“Please.”_ The actor whispers, staring into Zach’s closed off petulant face.

Chris takes a deep breath through his nose. Fuck. Number One is good.

They carry on for a few more lines that Chris does not bother with listening to. Watching other actors reading for the same roles has always messed him up. Before, he’d vaguely wished this were a one-on-one reading but now it's a consolation prize to not be alone with Zach in the same room.

Susan calls for them to stop and then Zach launches into the audition with Number Two. It’s all just buzzing white noise in Chris’s ears. 

Anyway.

Chris has already read the synopsis for this play, so he knows the scene. As a fan of classic American literature and film, it was exciting for Chris to be shown a contemporary take on _Casablanca._

Unlike Star Trek, Chris knows his old movies. Greg Finnegan has written an interesting divergence on the original story. Instead of taking place during World War II, modern day soldiers stationed overseas collect in this bar called Casablanca. Rick, the guy who owns the establishment, used to be in the service, but was discharged for reasons he won’t disclose. 

Now he runs the American café/bar which acts like a kind of purgatory, a neutral zone where people of all opinions can come together. Each soldier who passes through the place has a story, but no one really knows Rick’s. Not until fellow US officer Ian Lund walks in.

Zach mimics taking another drink.

_“Why did you have to come to Casablanca? There are other places.”_

Number Two looks contrite, consults his lines for a second and then bows his head. _“I wouldn’t have come if I had known that you were here. Believe me, Rick, it’s true.”_

Zach tilts his head. Looking down at the other actor, his expression is almost menacing underneath those thick perfectly groomed eyebrows. 

_“I didn’t know.”_ Perfect Chocolate Skin says and grips Zach’s shoulder. Zach eyes the hand on him like he doesn’t know why it’s there.

“Stop!” Susan calls out, with one hand up. “Thanks very much, Dan.”

Chris figures he must seem like a freaking Grinch standing there scowling next to those other two, who are all smiles and talent. Can’t help it though. Not when Mr. Perfect Skin nods and smiles lopsidedly as Zach shakes his hand. Maybe if Chris frowns enough, when this audition slaps him in the face it won’t hurt as much.

“Alright. Number Three.” Susan says.

Greg seems kind of impatient, gesturing at Chris with a swooping arm, so he frog walks over the masking tape line towards Zach. It’s been at least two years since he’s been within talking distance of the guy, and now he has to _act._

Shit. 

“Hey. Zach. Nice to see you.” Chris forces himself to say, each word like a sharp spade digging into cold dirt. He keeps his head down as they weakly shake hands but Chris peers through his eyelashes at Zach who gives him a sort of pitying, bemused look, before replying with part of the script.

 _“It’s funny about your voice, how it hasn’t changed. I can still hear it.”_ Zach turns to the side and looks off towards a pile of clutter. 

Then Zach mimics his next line earnestly, making exaggerated jazz hands, in a pretty awful impression of Chris. Or in this case, Office Ian Lund.

_“‘Rick! Don’t give up. I’ll go with you anywhere. We’re getting out of this war and we’re gonna stay together.’”_

Chris clears his throat and shoves hands into his jean’s back pockets. Then rips them out and rubs the back of his neck. He’s somehow dropped the laminated script in the space of a minute and wonders how much of an asshole he’d look while trying to pick it up.

Whatever. He’s got to at least get _one_ line out.

Zach’s got his back to him now. That’s something Chris is damn familiar with. But he can’t move around anyway. He’s stuck to the spot, rooted down, a petrified piece of Pine. He licks his lips and clears his throat once more. There’s a lump the size of an apple in there and it tastes sour. He doesn’t want to say the next words but lumbers through them anyway.

_“Please don’t… **Don’t** , Rick. I can understand how you feel.” _

This is probably the worst role he could have ever tried out for.

Because he’d _never_ understood Zach. Not really. 

That’s why things are the way they are.

It’s why they couldn’t be within five feet of each other all through filming the Trek sequel. It’s why the tabloids believed their duelling egos had swelled to diva size proportions. It’s why they haven’t actually spoken in years. 

It’s why somehow, in all the callbacks, in all the plays in New York, Chris had to walk into the one where Zach’s the leading man and plays a jilted lover.

Fuck.

Zach is quiet as though he knows exactly what Chris is thinking. 

_“Huh. You understand how I feel. How long was it we had, babe?”_

Chris can’t help scowling, feeling irrational anger bubble up inside him at the unscripted endearment.

_“I didn’t count the days.”_

_“Well, I did. Every one of them. Mostly I remember the last one, you know.”_

Chris gnaws his lower lip.

Zach spins around and looks angry, which is no great feat for him, really, considering the personal experience he’s probably drawing from. 

_“It was a fucking wow finish. A guy left standing on a bloody battlefield, not because of being WIA, but because his insides had been ripped out.”_

Zach takes a drink. Has the gall to smile behind the bottle at the table where the director and writer sit. It makes Chris so mad that Zach acts like he’s got them wrapped around his little finger.

Chris fumes and takes a few stamping steps so that he’s behind Zach. Just because Zach was here first doesn’t mean anything. Chris is a professional. He can get through this. Because damned if he doesn’t need this job. 

_“Lemme tell you a story.”_ Chris shoots off.

 _“Only if it’s got a wow finish.”_ Zach fires back.

_“I don’t **know** the finish yet.”_

They stare at each other. Zach drags one hand across his stubbly jaw and Chris follows the movement with his eyes, licks his lips and then looks away when Zach delivers his next line with gentle sarcasm. Chris knows that tone well too.

_“Go on. Tell it. Maybe one will come to you as you go along.”_

Chris can’t afford to fall into that stupid irrational fear he gets sometimes. The one that debilitates him so he doesn’t try too hard in case he screws up. 

Also? The sudden thought which strikes him. That everyone is in on this one cosmic joke, laughing at him. As if this is the part where, (if there is a God) He’s just gone and slapped Chris with puberty again. Because this situation is so stupidly perfect and brutal that he must be on hidden camera. 

Did Zach _tell_ anyone?

He swallows. Blinks rapidly. _“It’s about a guy who had just been stationed in a strange gory place. And he met a soldier. One he’d heard about his whole life.”_

Chris is straight. Definitely straight. And that other _Thing_ was just… a Thing he should not think about anymore. Shitty Zach. Thinking he has a monopoly on all the gay roles in theatre because he’s actually gay. He has no idea how deadly the rom-com genre can make a man.

_“A great and courageous type of man. This soldier opened up a whole new beautiful world full of knowledge and thoughts and ideals. Everything the guy knew or ever became was because of that man. And this guy, he couldn’t help it, looked up to the soldier and…”_

Zach is staring at him as Chris speaks, blankly.

 _“…Cared about him…”_

It’s like acting with a mannequin. He imagines there is a very bland-looking dinner plate where Zach’s face used to be, because these next words are pretty much a kick in the nuts to them both.

 _“Maybe even with a feeling he supposed…”_ Chris can’t help but clear his throat here, and mutter, _“…was love.”_

His heart is racing as if he’d just run far away. More than anything Chris Pine can’t believe he actually delivered the entire line. 

“Great,” Greg murmurs, looking more red in the face because of the whiteness of his grin. Chris breathes a relieved sigh and there is the telltale rustling like a classroom full of kids waiting to be let out. It’s over.

 _“That’s a very pretty story!”_ Zach interrupts, his normally high, gentle voice, is loud. He steamrolls through the next line.

_“You know, I heard a story once. Matter of fact, I’ve heard lots of stories in my life. And they went along with the sound of the piano that Sam’s playing in the parlour downstairs. ‘Mister, I met a man once when I was a kid,’ it’d always begin. Huh. Guess neither one of our stories was very funny.”_

A red flush of anger has bloomed across Zach’s features somewhere in between the words 'pretty' and 'piano.' Had he even paused for air?

 _“Tell me, who was it you left me for?”_ Zach says this in the same way he used to tell people he was going to eat their brains. 

_“Was it Laszlo, or were there others in between? Or aren’t you the kind that Don’t Ask and Don’t Tell?”_

“Stop,” Susan calls out.

Chris takes the moment of silence to swallow the large throbbing lump in his throat and it slides back with a slow sort of satisfaction because instead of laughing at him, now everyone in the room is watching Zach with shock.

“I’ll text April to wait twenty minutes before the next group.” Susan says to her Lead, and Zach immediately leaves through the door he’d arrived through. The sharp clang spikes through the small room as the door shuts.

Not deterred in the slightest, Susan’s smiling and making outrageous arm movements as she writes. Greg is saying something to them in low tones but it all turns to bloody cotton in Chris’s ears. Number Two pats him on the back as they file out.

Next thing he knows he’s standing alone outside the theatre as people stream around him, to and fro. The faint scent of cigarette butts and sounds of car horns and sirens flavour that tangy one-of-a-kind New York air.

As far as bad auditions go, this one takes the cake.

******

You know that transition scene in the movies, where it’s nothing but a black frame and the sound of a phone ringing annoyingly loud, waiting to be picked up?

That’s kind of exactly how Chris Pine feels as he awakes the next morning.

“Chriff, turb boff your phone!” Dominique shouts from the bathroom, toothbrush swazzling around as she zooms through the motions of getting ready for another flight. 

He curls overtop the buzzing and ringing blackberry, holding it to his chest to muffle the sound just a second longer. Sleeping on the couch is not the best way to get up feeling glamorous in the morning.

Dominique walks by, muttering something in a different language, and taps him on the head with two fingers. He can hear her fiddling with the keys and the telltale zip and roll of luggage. The snick-clang of the door locking shut behind her.

“Okay! Okay,” Chris groans and answers the phone. 

It’s his manager.

“How’d it go?” She gets straight to it.

“Horrifying.” He doesn’t see the point in lying. He grimaces and sits up, scratching at his stomach just under the hem of his t-shirt. “Hear anything back from the other thing? The one about the housecat—”

“Chris, you got the role.”

“Yay.” He cheers flatly. “Housecat!” 

“No. The part for yesterday’s audition that was so _horrifying._ ” She sounds amused in the way someone gets when they’ve withheld valuable information, or an evil plan.

He blinks, letting his myopic vision blur away the world for a second. Sometimes he takes his glasses off to have a little time to himself. 

“Oh.” 

“Right. I need you here to meet with Khan so we can sign off on this thing. 1:30?”

“Oh, uh,” Chris switches the phone to his other ear. “Um.”

“You alright?”

“No. I mean,” Chris slaps on his glasses and throws back the blankets, talking fast as he pads over to open the balcony doors for some air. “I got that part? The _Gay Casablanca_ part. They called you?”

“Yes,” She’s annoyed. “Are you hung over? I’m not pushing the meeting back.”

“No, it’s this couch…”

“Listen. Be there on time. Hear me? This play, it’s already garnered a ton of media buzz.”

“Has it.” Chris squints, looking out into the street below. New York is a strange place. There’s no reason to honk horns so early in the morning. Everyone is gonna get to where they’re going eventually.

“Are you having second thoughts about,” her voice lowers to a hush, “ _you-know?_ Because if this play gets any recognition at all—and I am hearing things through the grapevine…”

Chris mouths the word ‘grapevine’ in disbelief.

“Think about this. People are going to look at you and not see just you.” His manager’s got the serious business voice on. “They’re going to see this character and script and what they represent. Then they’re going to ask you questions and if you don’t have the right answers they’ll expect you to answer for it.”

He twists his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger.

“I need this job.” Chris replies quietly, frustrated at the phrase more than anything else. “Besides, I’m not that big of an ass. It’s not like they can dig up pictures or quotes of me slandering gay stuff.”

There’s a moment of pause that is so familiar, Chris can visualize the look on his manager’s face. As though he’s a very cute but very stupid pet she doesn’t know what to do with. 

“I was talking about Zachary Quinto.”

Would it be career suicide to hang up? 

She continues in a sort of ominous tone, “Surely you know what they’ve said…”

“Uh huh. Uh huh.” Chris cuts in before she can finish that thought. “I’m a professional. 1:30. Done. Let’s do this.”

Yeah. He is so done for.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Chris isn’t the type of person who can just walk down the street with arms swinging. 

He juggles his coffee and book as he enters the subway, quickly leaning on the wall of the train car in the back.

It’s packed. Chris takes a sip, biting the rim of the paper cup. In a way using the subway is better than taking taxis. 

Anyway, he’s always got to have something to hold onto. It’s kind of always been that way. When he’s not latched onto his phone, he’s got a script, a notebook, or a favourite novel to pass the time in between obligations.

He pushes thick sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. The steam of the coffee brushes across his forehead for a short moment before he quickly opens to the last dog-eared page. 

He’d been trying to get Dominique to read this novel, but she’d never had the time. He vaguely wonders when he moves out if she’ll keep it or he’ll end up with two copies, one sitting in a dusty shelf, spine hardly cracked.

Usually Chris keeps his reading material pretty private. Not because he’s perusing the titles found in Oprah’s book club or whatever, but because a lot can be said about the books one reads.

The thing is? People who know and love the same books as you own the roadmap to your soul. 

Without even fully knowing each other, two people who share the same story can see the world the same way. It’s like a secret code, an unwritten list of inside jokes. Even the ways Chris thinks and communicates is largely employed by the various scenes, quotes, and journeys he’s got stored up. 

Anyway, it’s all mainly to provide a comfortable distraction. For him, and for others. Usually if you seem busy in public, other people are less likely to stick their nose into your business. Of course, that generally doesn’t apply for celebrities, but here in New York, Chris has done pretty well blending in.

Still, a couple fans do grab him for autographs at the station. Chris has long since stopped carrying a pen for these types of situations so he lets them take photos instead, and then he’s off.

The theatre’s steps are under his feet.

Enter Chris Pine onto the stage of _Casablanca._

Action.

******

“Not many people know this but _Casablanca_ was actually based off a stage play called _Everybody Comes to Rick’s._ ”

Greg spouts happily this information to the group of actors and stage hands, all sitting on fold out metal chairs set up on top of the stage. Some have got thick folds of paper balanced on black music stands while others brought their laptops. The dichotomy fills the room with a sort of clank and buzz of old meets new under the lights.

Chris kind of takes refuge behind his large glasses and a water bottle, writing little notes to himself where necessary. There are a lot of talented-looking actors from what Chris has surveyed while looking around.

“Since the movie and script are property of Warner Brothers, you can understand how difficult it would be to get permission for a stage recreation…” Susan continues, obviously more concerned by the legal side of things than her writer.

“Yes, but the original writer of the play managed to get it produced in London, more than twenty years ago!” Greg’s excited. “So the fact that it’s been done before helped us squeeze underneath opportunity’s door. So to speak.”

The guy sitting in front of Chris turns a bit, as if trying to look back surreptitiously, and all of a sudden recognition smacks Chris firmly in the face.

“What happened to your hair?” Is the first thing that comes out of Chris’s mouth.

The guy’s hand flies to the top of his head in protection. Spinning around fully in his seat he looks Chris up and down. “Excuse me?”

“Er,” Chris backtracks. “You were— I saw you at callbacks. You were…very blond.”

“I was.” He raises an eyebrow looking more amused than offended with his newly darker blond-brown hair. “Contract stipulation though. Victor Laszlo can’t be platinum. It’s not very becoming of your senior officer.”

Chris smiles politely and sticks out a hand. “Chris Pine.”

“I know.” Blondie’s smile has a kind of point to it as they shake hands firmly, he replies. “Chris Richards.”

Chris looks back to center stage where Greg has tried to sling an arm around Zachary Quinto’s shoulders, but Zach’s much too tall for him so the friendly arm becomes more of a pat on the back.

“—and we’re happy to have Zach here as our Rick Blaine. He’s also a co-producer and has been gunning for this project from the get-go. Couldn’t have gotten off the ground without him!”

There’s polite applause. Zach’s in one of his striped American Apparel hoodies paired with a weird salmon coloured shirt that has a very low V-neck. It’s like only yesterday that Chris remembers joking with him, making fun of the way Zach liked to chew on the string of his hoodie only to catch himself doing it on his own later.

“Thank you everyone, for your interest in this project. It means,” Zach looks around, “the world to us, and me. So, let me be the first to say, welcome! And thanks, Greg,” He says, that gentle, gracious voice that Chris remembers from earlier days cradling the words. 

“I don’t know if anyone can be compared to the great Humphrey Bogart, least of all me, however I’m honoured to be here and be part of this amazing production and script.” Zach looks a bit red, like he’s pleasantly embarrassed. 

“Greg has said that he’d written the new Rick with me in mind.” He lifts an eyebrow and gives the group a deliberate once-over, then grins. “So if I’m a huge dick to you it can’t be helped.”

“Hey some of us are assholes, so it works out!” Someone shouts from the far right side of the stage.

Zach’s open laughter slams into Chris like window shutters blasting open to let in a blinding ray of sun. The accompanying chuckles of the group help somewhat, to blot out the sharp pinpricks of panic which stretch across Chris’s skin in a nervous flush.

Susan looks flustered and happy. “And on _that_ note, I’d like to make everyone aware of the impact this play is going to have on the community.”

When Zach nods solemnly and takes a seat, Chris doesn’t have to ask which community they’re talking about. 

“It’s important. It’s not just a _Gay Casablanca,_ ” Greg says this with air quotes and a humour-filled grin, “Even though that’s kind of true! But it’s also got the military issues in there, and...”

He goes on a long speech about the symbolism of the original movie and how it’s going to work with the changes, what he was trying to do. What he hopes they can do. 

“What he’s trying to say is that you’ll all be role models.” Susan looks upon them all with a sort of matronly gaze, as if trying to download this fact into their brains via eye contact. 

All around Chris, he can see actors and crew and volunteers all nodding, agreeing with earnest fervour. The feeling is contagious and Chris gets all that more determined, to do right by these people, to do the best he can.

******

Zach disappears before the meeting ends.

He’s off doing co-producer things, or something, and while Chris is thankful to have this job, it’s starting to feel like a time bomb resting in his palms, waiting for the inevitable moment to finally explode.

They are going to have to face each other, and it is going to be soon.

April, the chick with the ugly volunteer vest from callbacks, works in the theatre and has a bored look on her face when he walks by her office. Though it’s more like a hole in the wall closet filled with some rejected props. 

“Hey,” April calls out, swivelling in her chair as Chris passes her window while leaving. “A bunch of the main cast is going out tonight. You should meet them!”

“Oh, uh,” Chris wonders why this is the first he’s heard of it. Maybe he really is lost in his own world these days. He kind of has a tendency to space out into the twilight zone when preparing for a role. 

“Where?”

******

“I think I’m a little overdressed.” Chris mutters, coming up to the table where he spies familiar faces and more than one pair of very tight pants.

This is probably why no one had told him. Because the establishment he arrives at? It’s a club. Of… a certain persuasion. And of course this fact had become brilliantly obvious once he’d walked in and couldn’t walk back out. 

It’s not that Chris is homophobic. Only that he’s actually secretly perfectly okay with it. 

There was a time when this kind of stuff actually mattered to his career, being seen in these kinds of places always puts questions in the tabloids, pictures on the internet. But hey, seeing as how he’s going to be starring in a gayed up theatre version of an American classic, he guesses anything goes now. If his manager asks, it’s a cast meeting.

And he could always use new friends. Texting Hollywood is starting to lose its appeal.

Except the bottom of his stomach drops out when he sees Zach, sitting at the table, drink in hand. 

Maestro sticks his head into Chris’s line of vision. “Is that our Ilsa? Ilsaaaa!” 

The table cheers and Chris is unceremoniously shoved down into a chair. Al is this amazing guy who can play like, thirty instruments so perfectly it’s stupid. He’s definitely a maestro. He’s got the part of Sam, the piano player who’s supposed to be Rick’s long time friend but Chris has no idea why he’s not in some orchestra somewhere instead of a gay club slinging back shots. 

“Hey, uh, misappropriating my gender?” Chris replies good-naturedly and grins, “I think Greg’s sticking with the name _Ian._ ”

He reaches over and starts shaking hands with those nearest to him in lieu of saying more, the music pumping out of the speakers much too loud. 

Blondie’s there and he smirks. “We’ve got three Chris’s in this cast already, so you’ve been rechristened. Unless you prefer to be called Captain.”

There are easy snickers that ripple through the table and Chris gets the sneaking feeling that he’s just stepped on the tail end of a long running joke. He smiles uneasily, and picks out Zach on the other end of the group, pinched expression on his face. 

Chris watches him through the busy movements of hands, heads, and drinks. Those deep brown eyes are looking down the table placidly, like a dead calm lake, seeing nothing at all.

And then on the off-beat of a fast song, Zach’s eyes flick over to meet his. For a breath-stopping instant, they are the nearly invisible string holding together two lights in the dark.

“Wow, so, Chris Pine.” A hand holds up a drink in front of his face as if in toast, cutting off the contact. Chris frowns, not recognizing the man.

The guy continues, grin white. “Never thought in a million years…”

“Thought what?” Chris is confused.

“Hey!” Maestro shouts over the music, “No judging!”

“What are we talking about?” Chris wonders.

“Pfft. You have rocks down in LA?”

“Huh?”

“Must’ve been living under a big one.”

“He’s actually just straight.” Zach supplies loud and clear during that fast moment when a DJ is changing tracks. It’s the first thing he’s said to Chris, or _about_ Chris, that hasn’t been a rehearsed line.

It’s not helpful. More like a dagger to Chris’s back, it results in the rest of the table closing in to get a better look.

“Oh, is _that_ all?” A girl mutters in the back. Er, at least Chris _thinks_ that’s a girl.

“Explains the shoes.” Another says.

Chris can feel the blush of embarrassment crawl up his neck.

“Whatever guys. Leave him be. Let’s dance.” Maestro pats him on the back reassuringly as he and most of the table retreat to the floor scattered with tiny zipping lights like glitter that has been hand-tossed to the ground.

Chris spends the rest of the night texting John Cho nonsense and watching them dance themselves into jelly-legged stupors.

It’s just kind of ironic that Zach is doing the same thing. Or well, you know, scarily close. He’s thumbing lazily through his own smart phone, looking tired and buzzed. They’re not the only two left at the Casablanca table, but there’s no one sitting in between them, so five empty chairs makes it feel like they’re practically side by side. 

It’s sad that you can be in a room filled with so many people and still feel ignored.

The group returns, sweat-plastered and stoked, with an overtly attractive man wearing no shirt in tow. It’s no wonder when he comes and sits next to Zach that Chris pays attention. You know, because he’s bored. And the fact that he pretends to keep texting is purely so he doesn’t seem nosey.

“Seeing anyone lately?” The guy asks, straightforward.

Zach looks slightly embarrassed and his cheeks pick up a bit of colour, his mouth twisting into a tentative smile. “Uh, no.”

Shirtless guy looks more interested, a slow smile creeping up. Zach returns the look but only for a moment before shaking his head and really, the dude should have at least tried speaking instead of letting his chest do the talking. Everyone knows Zach isn’t that kind of guy.

Blondie laughs loudly when Rejected No-shirt leaves.

“Quinto what’s wrong with a one-night-only kind of show?”

“Nothing.” Zach quips quickly over his drink. “I’m just in the process of holding auditions for Leading Man.”

The group break out into easy chuckles and grins. Zach is all guileless innocence as he shrugs and makes that stupid face where he smiles and his top lip nearly disappears and eyebrows go up almost to his hairline and it’s just infuriating because of how endearing it all is.

Chris bites on the inside of his cheek and starts smashing blackberry keys in fast stabs of his thumbs.

“I thought the position of Captain has already been filled.” Someone jokes obnoxiously.

It’s like a slap in the face.

Chris can feel the blood drain from his face, pulsing painfully in his fingers and somehow freezing cold.

There’s loud laughter. 

“Hey Quinto, you ask him for permission before you come aboard?”

Zach’s endearing expression neatly falls away to reveal stone. 

“Excuse me.” Zach says, chair pushes back, and he is out of sight in a single manoeuvre now forever to be remembered as the classiest exit known to man.

The icy hush that has erupted within Chris explodes across the table, falling over the actors until all of them figure out they’ve just made a really shitty joke at the expense of the star and co-producer of their play.

Chris clears his throat, gets up too, and gives them all the middle finger before leaving them to their own devices.

People look like such assholes when they figure out there’s something important they don’t know.

******

Chris spots Zach moving up the current of pedestrians, shoving a long arm into the sleeve of his coat. He is a tall silhouette against the puddles of light lining the street.

“Where are you going?” Chris calls out to him. 

For some reason he feels guilty, even though it’s not his fault that people can get to be real douchebags after a night of drinking and dancing. It’s not even his fault that he and Zach apparently still have enough chemistry to land romantic roles together. He still feels guilty though. It shouldn’t matter, but it does.

“Home.” Zach replies.

This isn’t Silver Lake so Chris does not know where that is. 

Zach’s watching him with a reproachful look in his eyes.

“Right, so,” Chris takes a breath. “I’m s—”

Zach snorts, effectively cutting him off. “Were you just going to apologize? Please don’t tell me you were going to apologize.”

Chris glibly shuts his mouth.

Zach tilts his head, and there’s the beginning of a smile at the corner of his lips. “You were, weren’t you?”

Chris half-smiles back, eyebrows angling down. “I told you Star Trek was going to be the death of us.”

Zach nods, not really agreeing, more like just using the motion to turn and look away.

It frustrates Chris to no end. “I’m not gonna lie. You’re still—”

“What?” Zach snaps, voice suddenly angry. He stares at Chris for a moment, suspended in the way one has to hang when they’ve just struck like a viper, hard and venomous without thinking.

Chris licks his lips, and then looks off to the side, not really seeing anything. It’s these sorts of moments which lack distraction, a big screen in the dark with no silhouettes of strangers or cellphone lights to get in the way. 

That’s reality; the most exciting part of life and all he can do is stare blankly, facing away. It’s so much easier not to see things coming. If people didn’t fall into patterns and clichés then no one would be hurt by trying so hard to get around them.

Zach shrugs his coat tighter and turns, continuing to walk down the sidewalk’s concrete pathway to a place that is not here.

“Zach!” Chris calls out, and his eyebrows knit together when Zach doesn’t stop. His voice gets louder. 

“I think about you sometimes. That’s all.”

Chris says this not really meaning to, but meaning it. He feels a slipping sensation down the back of his throat as if the whole world has shrunk until it’s only as big as the words themselves. 

There are lots of responses that Zach must turn around in his head. He’s always been a believer in taking charge of his own life. Chris is more than willing to let him make the decision on whether they stay or go.

“I know you do.” Zach says finally, carefully neutral just like Chris. “It would be hard not to.”

In truth, Zach is a memory that comes to Chris without being called. 

The thing about memories is that they can hit you full force or sneak up from behind. They’re monsters living in the backs of our heads and the spaces in between people, the air and everywhere. The eternally unfocussed things that pop up while blowing in the wind; leaves, bits of newsprint, plastic bags.

Memories of Zach come to him in strange but familiar bursts, as if noticing these things is surprising, when in actuality, thinking about him is so common that it bears no forewarning. 

Old dots on the sidewalk, immortalized single-serving pieces of gum. The odd fruit sticker found in random places, such as the sole of a shoe, the inside of a cabinet door hardly used. 

The only problem is, like now, it takes distractionless moments to tear the thoughts away and hold them to the light.

He holds on tight.

Chris licks his lips and watches as Zach’s left index finger curls into the small space between the second and third buttons of his dress shirt. 

His mouth goes dry.

Zach shakes his head and the finger drops away. “Let’s just leave it at this. You and me… we aren’t the types who hold our breath.”

But that’s exactly what Chris is doing.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_“Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By.’”_

Someone in the back of the theatre starts whistling the Star Trek theme, loud and shrill.

Chris’s mouth hangs open for the whole first verse as people snicker or join in, completely ruining his big moment. 

And, obviously, it’s too much to ask for his stupefied expression to cue Maestro into covering up those betraying whistling notes by— you know, actually _playing_ the damn piano. 

“Oh come _on_ ,” says a voice off-stage.

Before the familiar black and white keys are even touched, Zach leaves his post from behind the curtain, arms stiff like a person who is gearing up into a very quiet pissed off mode.

Rightfully so.

Chris stands there, flummoxed when Zach’s nostrils flare noticeably and he grabs Chris by the elbow, towing him to sit back into the folding chair they’re using as a mark. Then Zach marches back to the piano and starts talking to Maestro with low-toned instructions.

So… Rehearsals have turned into one big punch line to a Star Trek joke.

It’s hard work, stage performance. It has a lot to do with presence. Theatre is about having control of your body and voice at all times, not relying on camera tricks and expert editing cuts, in order to tell a story.

As a self-scrutinizing perfectionist, Chris has memorized his lines like it’s a religion.

So, these wonderful little departures from the script?

Fray his nerves, relentlessly.

And after countless hours of humouring a barrage of jokes, puns, and hell— even requests for that LLAP thing, it’s not surprising Zachary Quinto has obviously _lost_ a nerve somewhere along the way.

The man in question walks briskly back to his own mark, arms tightly crossed, head bowed down, nodding just barely to himself. 

Chris watches him. 

Zach? Zach is completely domineering.

It’s usually not very apparent. The fact that Zach is capable of being an overbearing bossy son of a bitch can easily escape you if you’ve never worked together before. But as much as Zach has fun with his roles, and makes friends on set so much easier than Chris ever could, he is a bit of a tyrant when it comes to getting things done right and on time.

It’s mostly for his benefit, of course. There’s nothing Zach doesn’t like more than wasting time. He’s the kind of guy who actually spends leisure time doing worthwhile things, thinking about worthwhile things, and just overall, being worthwhile.

“From the top,” Susan directs, thumbing through a thick document and making grandiose notes.

Maestro wheels the piano over to where Chris sits, acting as if he’s at a polished table in café Casablanca. The sets are still being built after all, and won’t be ready for a couple of weeks.

 _“Sam. Hey.”_ Chris greets as the piano comes to a halt.

 _“Hello, Officer Lund.”_ Maestro takes a seat at the bench and settles hands against the keys. _“I never expected to see you again.”_

_“It’s been a long time.”_

_“Yes, sir. A lot of water under the bridge too.”_

In the movie, the café is huge and classy, sporting live entertainment, a full bar, and even gambling tables. _Rick’s_ is supposed to be a place where everyone who knows anyone goes to have a good time. But the real deal is that it remains the perfect place to pawn jewellery, make trades, or win some money in order to get back to America.

See, the main thing about the movie _Casablanca_ , is that people in the 1940s lived with this tremendous sense of obligation, of sacrifice. 

It’s not really the same now. There are a lot of people who walk around, never knowing the true magnitude of selflessness.

 _“Where’s Rick?”_ Chris asks, knowing this conversation has to be tense and uncomfortable. That’s easy enough.

_“I don’t know. I ain’t seen him all night.”_

Chris frowns. _“When will he be back?”_

_“Not tonight, that’s for sure. He ain’t coming. He went home.”_

The memory of Zach’s back and his face as he says ‘home’ flashes by.

_“Does he always leave so early?”_

_“He never…”_ Maestro pauses, desperate. _“He’s got a girl now, over at the Blue Parrot. He goes there all the time.”_

Chris thinks about it, staring off into the sparsely-filled red seats of the theatre. Various crew, volunteers, or other actors are always hanging out amongst the cushy seating. He thinks about Zach with a woman and a sort of amused smile comes to his lips unbidden. It’s not that the thought is funny, only that it’s so freaking absurd. Like Maestro is telling him the sky is green but only the two of them know it’s not true. 

Kind of like the other night, when Zach had called Chris ‘just straight’ while looking him in the eye.

He exchanges a glance with the pianist.

_“Now we both know you’re lying. You used to be so much better at it, Sam.”_

The soft music stops. _“Leave him alone, Ian. You’re bad luck to him.”_

Chris bites his lip, eyes sliding to the side, as if looking for Rick Blaine.

_“Play it once, Sam, for old time’s sake.”_

_“I don’t know what you mean.”_

Chris takes a deep breath, _“Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By.’”_

The hall’s dead quiet.

 _“I can’t remember it.”_ Maestro says, though his fingers line up on the keys.

_“I’ll whistle it for you.”_

They count it as a victory when the silence remains. Maestro begins to play, very softly, as though he hopes no one will hear. 

_“Sing it, Sam.”_ Chris tells him.

_You must remember this_  
A kiss is just a kiss  
A sigh is just a sigh  
The fundamental things apply  
As time goes by 

Zach comes swinging in, no longer watching from the curtained-off side of the stage. Lividness masks his face.

Zach’s kind of too good at acting angry, considering he’s a pretty unassuming guy.

You wouldn’t know it just looking at him. He’s always so well-put together, with soft eyes, and a soft introspective voice. Hell, if it was grammatically possible to _talk out loud_ in lower case letters, well, he probably would. 

It’s a common thing for actors, to really shine when portraying characters dissimilar from themselves. Then again, when all’s said and done, there’s always something of each of them in those characters as well.

Rick Blaine’s angry now. No one is supposed to hear that song. It’s part of his story, the one he doesn’t want to tell, about why he was discharged from the service.

Because the great sacrifice of society these days, is that people have to pretend to be who they’re not.

 _“Sam!”_ Zach grits out as he walks briskly up to the piano. _“I thought I told you never to play—”_

Chris takes this minute to study Zach, up close. They stare at each other, and it’s supposed to be in shock, but that’s a little hard to manage when Chris just feels crushing _relief._

Zach’s mouth is tugging at the side, like a fishhook’s got him. 

“You are awful at whistling.” Zach mutters under a single tender breath. “That was not Sinatra’s tune.”

“I know.” Chris grins. “ _Bad Romance’s_ got that little something extra.”

It’s kind of natural, the way they’ve teamed up. There’s not a day that goes by without a Kirk and Spock joke waiting for them right around the corner. Any other time he would have been annoyed, frustrated, apathetic about the whole damn thing. 

But now that they’re acting together again? It’s hard to remember the distance, more difficult to ignore each other. It makes sense to feel defensive and maybe even protective. 

Maybe that’s all they can be. They’re both skirting the perimeter of friendship, protecting the fragile _Thing_ that sits between them at the heart of a very wide orbit. Two stars circling a dark space.

“Great!” Susan sounds chipper. “We’ll work on Laszlo and Berger again. Ricky, down here!” 

He notices that Zach is a bit reluctant to leave his post, fingers of his left hand cracking as they flex. Chris just smiles politely at him, wants to pat him on the shoulder but sidesteps and thumps Maestro instead. 

Zach nods quietly, thanking the pianist for the good scene. Chris takes a seat in the stands, flipping listlessly through that novel he’s working through as Zach and Susan stoop over a laptop, discussing in low tones.

By the end of the day, Chris realizes he’s spent more time watching Zach than reading the pages of a really good book.

God damn it.

******

“They want a dance number.”

“What?” 

It’s Zach who asks the question, looking up from above thick-rimmed glasses. He puts down the script he’s been going over with Chris, Blondie, and the guy who plays Renault (more specifically, the asshole who said Chris lived under a rock).

Susan looks nervous and excited. Though mostly nervous.

“The executive board.” She explains. “They want something bigger. So they pulled up a choreographer and now we’ve got this whole new set to include…”

“It’s the first I’ve heard about this.” Zach points out, trepidation colouring his voice. “Not to mention it doesn’t fit.”

“Au contraire,” Susan replies. “Ever since the media picked up that we’ve got Kirk and Dr. Spock on board, they feel this is getting so big that we’ve got room to spare.”

 _“Mister.”_ Both Chris and Zach correct irritably at the same time.

“Who’s been spilling the juicy bits?” Blondie wonders out loud.

Susan and Greg announce the changes made and the next couple of days are spent scrambling to sort themselves out. Wardrobe is having a department-wide meltdown. 

Chris himself can barely keep up. He starts leaving the theatre later and later, falling asleep as soon as he climbs onto the couch.

Sometimes life just flies by without the chance to take notes.

******

“Oh my God. What do you call that? That’s just sad.”

The next days are spent intensely, trying to make the flashback Paris scene larger than life in just the short weeks left before opening.

“Okay, so I guess I should come with a warning: Chris Pine, actor extraordinaire, two left feet!”

Zach has perfected scepticism. “You can do crazy stunt scenes and gun-fight chases, but not manage to shuffle in between some people dancing?”

“Duh.” Chris replies in his best charming voice. 

“Wait a minute.” Zach gets this evil look on his face. “What about in Princess D—”

“First of all!” Chris shouts, and then speaks sweetly, trying to make a point without seeming too spoiled by Hollywood. “It’s called CG. Secondly, I feel like I’m in the Lion King and going to get trampled by a herd of wildebeests.” 

“All you have to do is navigate through the dancing couples. Come on.”

Zach makes sure they run through it more than once. That’s so like him; taking care of people, not letting anyone lag behind. Chris feels like the last person Zach should bother with. And yeah, sometimes he gets this look in those brown eyes, like he’s near an edge, but never pushes over. 

Zach’s _too_ damn big-hearted sometimes. Or awful, depending on who you ask. The dancers are glaring daggers at then both by the time Chris gets the choreography right. (Perhaps it’s prudent to mention this takes all night.)

“Okay, guys, once more and then we can go home.” By now even Susan’s ready to put a stop to the madness.

The music starts up for the last time. Chris is sure this is all supposed to look purposeful and well-positioned, but he can’t help thinking of instances back in childhood. Running through a line of laundry hung up in the backyard’s sun to dry. 

The brush of twirling skirts against his ankles is the wind whipping through linen and, at the point where the fast dancing music stops, all the clothespins are yanked away. He’s left standing in a bright open field, the only focal point a foot away— Zachary Quinto, who’s smiling proudly at Chris.

Zach, one of the best guys he knows and whom Chris should really stop feeling so bitter about. Because there’s no point anymore, not when they’ve got to work together, and not when they work together so _well._

Chris grins back, beyond ecstatic.

And maybe Zach is tired of leading, maybe he’s tired of making this all work, or maybe he’s just damn tired. Because this is the one time, the only time, where Zach grabs Chris by the front pocket of his plaid shirt and then they’re in a stage-worthy embrace. 

Chris’s heart slams against his ribcage the moment his body hits Zach’s, right hand crushed between their chests. Zach’s hands are cupping the back of his head and Chris can feel the sweep of a dancer’s long skirt across the backs of his knees.

It’s weird, the way the moment of happiness has flowed so easily into this. 

Officers Rick Blaine and Ian Lund were really in love, in Paris. Until Ian got scared of being outed and left Rick at the airport, to inevitably get discovered and discharged. So maybe it’s okay, this once, that his and Zach’s lips are nearly touching, as if they are a needle’s pull away from being laced together. They used to be in love once too.

Without thinking he curls two fingers into the V of Zach’s hoodie where both tracks of the zipper meet. Gravity pulls, the zip parting as his hand glides down, Zach’s body heat rushing out to meet Chris like hot breath on a very cold day.

Zach takes a deep breath and the air that gusts across Chris’s top lip tickles, the blood in his head buzzing loud. Soft piano chords of _As Time Goes By_ trickle through the haze, and that’s so damn _distracting_ — So Zach’s fingers slip downwards through his hair, palms dragging over Chris’s ears and then press firmly, blocking all noise.

What are they supposed to do at this point? Chris can’t exactly remember. He only knows what they’ve done before.

So he lets Zach’s zipper hit the end of its track, click open, and then he’s holding Zach lightly on either side of the navel, blunt fingertips digging in.

“Zach,” He whispers and can’t hear himself because Zach’s holding so tight.

It’s only natural that Zach answers this with a kiss.

It’s soft, so damn soft, just like Zach’s voice and Chris can’t stop himself from imagining all the things he could be saying. 

Chris parts his lips and takes one deep breath, just for a second, before he sucks on Zach’s lower lip.

He feels Zach’s hands slide down across the stubble of his jaw, thumbs hooking on his chin to open his mouth wider, and Chris lets him. 

Zach pulls back from the kiss, lips slightly parted in a strange expression that’s caught between shock and something else entirely too scary to label. Chris can feel his lips tingling and he breathes through his mouth, staring dumbly.

Suddenly they are standing very far apart.

“Shit.” Zach murmurs.

“Wow.” 

That breathlessly happy sound comes from Greg, who’s standing in the orchestra pit, blinking stars out of his eyes behind those square glasses. A few people are clapping and cat-calling. Chris can feel the blush shooting up his neck. 

_“That!”_ Greg’s arm draws a large circle, encompassing them both. “That is not in the script.”

Chris clears his throat.

“No.” Zach agrees.

“But I liked it.” Greg says with a pout.

“Uh, yeah. Time to shut up, Greg.” Zach replies. 

“Maybe, er, we stick to the script the next go.” Chris suggests, feeling every inch an idiot.

“I am writing that _into_ the script.” Greg trumps them with a flourish. 

“Oh my God, shut _up._ ”

“Zach, don’t sweat it.” Chris tries, hopeful, but not knowing for what. “A kiss is just a kiss.”

And fuck, what a kiss it was. But if anyone asks? Roleplay thing.

Zach’s next words guillotine down, cutting off anyone else.

“No, Chris. Not with you.”

******

Everyone is nearly finished packing up to go home when things turn upside down.

Susan has been texting furiously, which gives way to an actual phone call. Her nails tap against a stray music stand for lack of any keys to press.

Actors and crew alike are exchanging curious glances, wondering if another new dance is waiting in the wings for them. A few people make a run for it, knowing full well they’ll be here past 2 in the morning if they stick around.

It’s ominous when she finally hangs up, scans the hall, and zeroes in on Chris and Zach. _Just_ Chris and Zach. 

She takes Chris by the elbow and while Zach is following behind them, he murmurs to her if she’s okay. She just shakes her head.

“Do me a favour.” She says, exhausted. “Use the back exit today.”

“Why?” Chris asks, just wanting to eat some junk for dinner, wallow over shit, and pass out.

She laughs a bit hysterically. “Because the media circus just came to town.”

Zach’s pinched No-One-Talk-to-Me expression melts away into alarm. “What happened?”

“Someone’s tweeted.” Susan says in a small voice. “Tweeted something bad.”

“Or good!” Greg interjects, sidling up looking high-string and sounding high-pitched. “It could be good.”

“What?” Zach asks, calm. Too calm. Quietly slides his phone from his back pocket and thumbs through the thing with deceptive serenity. Then he holds it up for Chris to see.

“What the fuck,” rolls right off Chris’s tongue, heart racing off into the night without him. There’s nothing that he could say in an attempt to fix this. Except, “Has my ass always been that big?”

Greg snorts and laughs while Susan pats Chris on the hip reassuringly.

Zach only pinches the bridge of his nose and then scowls, looking off to side as if the world has just betrayed him. That’s the thing about trying to ignore something. It always comes back to slap you in the face. But damn if the internet doesn’t make it worse.

“This was just an hour ago during the dance set. Whose account is this?”

“Don’t know.” Susan sort of moans in amused irony. “I’ll round up the usual suspects.”

Greg sends an undecipherable look towards Susan, then Zach. They are a miserably tight-knit triumvirate. Chris swallows. He feels like he’s been left out of some important piece of dialogue.

“Come on, Chris. I’ll take you home.”

******

They’re pulling away from the underground parking, out into the street. The drive is awkward and long. It’s still imprinted in Chris’s mind. The sight of paparazzi lining the street outside the theatre, flashbulbs going off like the crack of fireworks, phones thrust high into the air.

“So…” Greg starts off, after long minutes of New York silence. It really isn’t silence at all, but an amalgamation of clichés that form a familiar symphony of background music that would be hard to forget if one ever left. 

“I know that area. Those are pretty big apartments,” he says, referring to the address.

“Yeah, uh, I’m rooming with my Ex, actually.”

Greg’s eyebrows raise and he laughs, keeping things light, even though it’s pretty obvious to Chris that he’s curious and wants more information. Not that he can really blame him. _Everyone_ wants information these days, it’s kind of more important than food. This way America is _starving._

“How does that not drive you crazy?”

“You learn to live with them.”

Greg’s face is tinted grey in the night lighting, with little bits of red and yellow and green flashing across his skin like the occasional coloured ink in a newspaper.

“…And do you learn to _work_ with them too?”

Chris does not answer. His heart has dropped to the pit of his stomach, beating short and quick and feeling very far away, as if it’s shrunk to the size of a marble. He must make some sort of pained face because Greg immediately backtracks.

“Hey. Look…” He says gently, drags out the words careful and slow.

Chris can see the piece of advice coming from a mile away. 

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

“Uh, what do you think that is, exactly?” Chris’s eyes slide to the side in alarm, his lips pressing together tight.

Greg is abashed but determined to dive into this opening, as if he’s been meaning to get to the heart of this topic for a while. Chris immediately braces himself for impact.

“You know, when you walked into that audition… I was beyond floored. The way you two… Well, that’s not important. What I mean is— Don’t worry about this hiccup. Everyone knows you’re playing a couple. Part of the play. The worst thing that’s happened is you’ve given a bunch of fans fantasy material.” 

Chris can’t help blinking at him incredulously, can’t help parroting what his manager had said to him before all this.

“But you know what they’ve been saying, don’t you?”

“I do.” Greg says dismissively. “Zach’s probably gotten over it by now.”

“That’s—” Chris cannot believe what he’s hearing. “That’s kind of hypocritical.”

“Oh, you think so?” He seems genuinely surprised.

“Yeah, just ‘cause Zach is— You think _I_ don’t...” Chris squints and looks away, surprised to be filled with indignation. “That doesn’t mean anything. We just have— baggage.”

“Oh.” This single vowel is infused with interest. Greg’s round profile melts into a more genuine smile, flashing red and then green, stop and go. 

“I’m not…” Chris flounders ridiculously. “I’m not— not _that_ type of baggage. That’s not what I’m saying here. Just,” He has to shut _up_ already, “mind your own business, man.”

“Chris, Chris, Chris.” Greg chimes, alarmingly cheerful, “You’re the gay man’s Ilsa. Does that even mean anything to you?”

“Yes.” He lies. 

“No, it doesn’t.” Greg continues as if Chris’s answer doesn’t matter and gives him a patient if not frustratingly amused look. “But if it’s any consolation, you’re the perfect casting, in my books. I know it doesn’t seem like it now—it’s frustrating to work with… baggage.”

Chris’s stomach does a little uncoordinated summersault. He licks his lips.

“But, despite the diva moments, despite being easy targets for the media,” and he pauses, which actually makes Chris pay begrudging attention.

“It’s still effortless between you two. That means something, right? A good something.”

The simple words condemn him in a way no others could. Split him so deep that a hollow feeling fills his chest until the real Chris is pushed out, far away amidst the midnight glitter of city lights.

Things with Zach are anything but effortless. Still, he can’t bring himself to reply; too afraid whatever will come out of his mouth is going to confirm what Greg thinks. Maybe there’s nothing _to_ say. If he’s more interested in confirmation than denial, things have definitely started to change. 

“They said that Ingrid Bergman looked at Mr. Bogart like she was painting his face with her eyes.” Greg shifts in his seat to sit up straighter and smiles more indulgently, as though to try and take down Chris’s defence with compliments.

“You do the same thing.” 

“I make Zach blue?” Chris asks dryly, with lack of anything better to say.

Greg hesitates and then replies, quiet and sure. “He looks sad when he’s looking at you. So maybe. Yeah.”

After that, the silence returns and Greg refocuses on the traffic. 

Chris’s chin juts out as he fights the inexplicable awful knot in his stomach that feels like guilt. He looks down and watches in a detached sort of manner as fingers of one hand dig into the inseam of his jeans, fingers of the other turning the clear plastic of a water bottle white. 

He sees himself in the windshield glass, superimposed against the dark streets amongst the bright spots of blurred streetlamps and the red brake lights of cars going up the road. Overhead, the arm of the night sky wraps around the towering buildings, embracing them in this tiny world, as if they are all moths fluttering towards that one particular light they each must find.

Greg is wrong about one thing.

Chris has spent a long time hiding the fact that, for a brief moment in time, he and Zachary Quinto had a _Thing._ And very quickly that Thing had inevitably become an Ex-Thing. 

And it’s all Chris Pine’s fault. 

It’s funny how a few months of insanity can spur quiet madness for the rest of one’s life.

One moment the bright stars of love had shone in Zach’s eyes. Then, total darkness. Eyes like lobotomized skies. 

Breaking up with Zachary Quinto had been like blowing out a flame, but with no lingering smoke trail left to breathe in. 

Their relationship was just gone, without a trace. They saw each other but, like the stars in the sky separated by millions of miles, they lived disconnected, only capable of knowing the space between. Not even self aware. Always seeing what was not there.

He’d never let himself react to it before. Pretended they had no Thing, like people who pretend they don’t smell the curling smoke of a cigarette on the clothes of someone who says they’ve quit. 

Now he has no clue how they’re going to get through this, keep going, when the trail had been cleanly wiped away. They are directionless, lost, and very much in the dark. The more he’s with Zach, the more he remembers, the more he wants to hang on. And maybe this all is just a _really stupid idea_ because, fuck. 

He’s been hiding behind scripts and lines and _jokes_ and Jesus, he’s not even _funny._

Because underneath the years of silence, bitter resentment and anger, Chris still cares. He still cares, so much, and it’s never gone away. It’s all falling flat.

So, where’s the punch line to that?

 


	5. Chapter 5

The thing about the internet is that _everyone knows what’s on the internet._

It’s not this kind of Secret Garden, no Narnia. Not some fun place that you can go to escape. At least, not anymore. Nothing is so far removed that no one will find what you’re searching for. The internet is not anyone’s Las Vegas. What happens there will not _stay_ there.

It gets onto the radio stations and the television programs. The internet is _news._ It’s real. And it’s horrifying.

So… Catching a break in his first big New York play would have been so much simpler if Chris didn’t have to play the love interest to Zachary Quinto.

Because kissing Zach during rehearsals and then getting tweeted about makes things explode. Especially since the reason they broke up in the first place?

Is because of what had been on the internet: the truth.

_Not surprised Zach would fall for Chris. Those eyes._

_Was it vulcan kissing or human kissing???_

_Pics or it didn’t happen_

_There IS a photo didn’t u see the original tweet_

_Actors kiss all the time. I doubt they are in love._

_Quinto is gay! Isn’t that Captain Kirk guy straight though?_

_Guys stop posting these rumours!! I'll only believe it if PINTO kiss in the play!_

Chris severely wants to chuck his phone. It’s not as if he actually likes having the opportunity to read the endless stream of ugly gossip in simple 140 character bits. It’s just funny how words so small can tear someone right up. 

And the comments keep coming. Through Twitter, Facebook, video reactions on Youtube. Everywhere. They’ve even got a watch page on Tumblr or something. Simon Pegg had emailed the link.

John Cho sends a lovely text.

_I always figured Zach would be on the top._

Chris snorts and deletes it.

 _Everyone_ keeps texting him. And calling. It’s a huge nightmare made up by the tiny opinions of people who don’t actually matter, an anonymous barrage of crap.

It’s times like this he’s glad he never signed up for this social media stuff. There’s no feeling worse than trying to get words out only to delete them away, one letter at a time. It seems like he’s been doing that for way too long.

“This isn’t looking very good.” His manager says over the phone.

Chris agrees with an inarticulate grunt.

“Everyone’s been talking about it. Have you seen the TV?"

Well,” Chris clears his throat and grins in that way he does when he’s making a self-deprecating joke. Not that she can see it. “I’m not on TV a lot, so no…”

There’s guilt boiling in Chris’s stomach that he hasn’t let himself feel so deep before. He doesn’t have to watch. He knows what’s on there.

She continues through his nonsense, steadfast, “Well, we knew it was coming. Any publicity is good publicity and all. Can’t say it’s that much of a stretch, we’ve just got to contain anything real.”

That sounds impossible at the moment. How can her version of the truth be more real than his? 

“No more kissing.”

“That’s part of the play.” Chris supplies unhelpfully.

“Alright. So no more anything else.”

“Wha—” The complaint gets caught in his throat, realizing it’s futile. Zach won’t have a problem dropping back into their familiar state of mutual ignorance. Has all the right to, anyway. It’s _Zach_ who the media has smeared.

“No walking together, no eating together. If you can stop from looking like you’re friends, even better.”

“Can we at least _work_ together?” Chris asks peevishly.

“ _Can_ you?” His manager asks, in a tone which suggests the opposite. “I asked you that at the beginning.”

He rubs his eyes. “It’s not my fault the fucking paparazzi won’t let us.”

There’s a pause.

“We took care of it before, Chris. Don’t worry. We can do it again.”

But that’s ultimately what he’s afraid of. They’d taken care of it so perfectly that first time, so perfectly that when he and Zach were over, there was nothing left.

He should have expected the truth to slap him in the face. Hard.

But since Chris has been living under a rock, he figures he needs to be cut some slack somewhere.

“But you know what they’ve said.” Chris replies, softly. “It’s not fair.”

“You’re right.” His manager says, and that’s the most sincerity Chris has heard from her in a long time. 

“Tell me what _you_ want.” 

He’s gotta keep a positive outlook, see things from a new point of view. And learning from the past is always the best way to go. So what does he know?

It always starts with a break up.

******

Chris and Zach don’t speak for a week. Two. And when they do?

Hah. It’s because the show must go on.

Zach’s got his hair combed back today, trench coat on, in character, and his open eyes are accusing in a way that doesn’t come just from acting. 

_“Why’d you come back? To tell me why you ran out on me at the airport?”_

_“Yes,”_ Chris sighs, annoyed and apprehensive of what Zach’s taking away from this scene. This part of the play hits him harder than the rest, and it’s difficult these days. So damn difficult when they have to recite these words to each other and pretend there’s not something else they’re saying.

_“Well you can tell me now. I’m reasonably sober.”_

_“I don’t think I will, Rick.”_

_“Why not? After all, I got stuck with a dishonourable discharge on my record because of you. Oh, and an extra plane ticket.”_ Zach looks him up and down. _“I think I’m entitled to know.”_

I saw what happened to you, when the truth came out, Chris thinks, even as he says his next line, about how close to home this all is. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, you wouldn’t understand. Not when you look at me with so much anger. Soon the play will be over and we’ll never have to see each other again. We’d known so little about each other before we... 

_“If we leave it that way, maybe we’ll remember those days and not Casablanca, not last night.”_

Zach looks at him and like that time in the audition, like he has a pretty good idea of what’s going on in Chris’s head.

_“Did you run out on me because you couldn’t take it? Because you knew what it would be like, hiding our true selves, running away all the time?”_

_“You can believe that if you want to.”_

Zach walks away, standing just out of reach. _“Well, I’m not running away any more. I’m settled now.”_

 _“You still haven’t…told anyone.”_ Chris replies to his back. It seems fitting. He’s been thinking about the same thing longer than he’d care to admit. Zach still hadn’t told anyone the truth. 

_“No.”_ Zach says carefully. _“But there’s been no reason to tell.”_

He feels like the ultimate hypocrite, sayings this next line.

_“Some would call that still hiding.”_

“You would know.” Zach adlibs with an honesty that chokes Chris. _“I live above the bar, one flight up. I’ll be expecting you to find me.”_

It doesn’t even seem real, when he thinks about it. How such a bright, fast-lived moment in time had come to colour the rest of his life so darkly. For a long time it had become a short page of nonsense, an outlier ripped out in haste. But now he needs some sort of reference to navigate this Thing. Make it all work out.

The truth was it _had_ been effortless with Zach until it wasn’t and then suddenly, so suddenly, they had fallen apart.

Chris drops the act. “You’re adlibbing.”

“It’s liberating.”

“Well…” Chris nearly trails off, seeing the rest of the cast members and Susan watching them.

“Stop it.” He mutters under his breath standing close enough so Zach can hear.

Zach responds, loudly.

“Pardon my need for liberation, uh, but,” He raises one eyebrow, an unkind smile splitting his lips. “I mean, it’s probably hard for you to understand, what with this being a story about sacrifice. You obviously don’t have a point of reference.”

Sourness erupts on the back of Chris’s tongue as he bites out, “ _I_ have a pretty good idea.”

Zach stops short, face incredulous. “You could at least _act_ like you’re not selfish.”

The accusation echoes across the stage and theatre seats. There’s a hush amongst the rest of the crew, but the oppressive silence is not enough to choke out the sounds of phones being flipped open, buttons punched.

Chris loses it. 

“Sorry!” He yells sarcastically. “What’s my motivation?”

Zach’s mouth drops open, scowl firmly in place—

 _“Hey!”_

The high-pitched order stops their argument in its tracks. Chris blinks owlishly, unnerved to realize he’d been up in Zach’s face.

April, the volunteer girl, stands there in the orchestra pit ugly vest and all looking nervous and red in the face.

“You know what makes Casablanca so powerful? So fucking _epic?_ It’s because every time you see it, see Rick and Ilsa, see them happy, you remember how sad they’re going to be.”

Chris stares at her, not alone in his gobsmacked stance as people all around them are slack-jawed.

“So, uh,” She flounders, as if just now noticing there’s an audience. “Do us all a favour, just a tiny one. Try to be happy now. Because you’re going to be sad, very sad, later.”

Chris and Zach share a glance that is indecipherable in its shock.

Applause breaks out.

“And let’s not find any of this on the Twittersphere, lest we find new jobs…!” Greg crows over the noise.

It’s unpleasant to think that Chris has fallen into this trap. It creeps up so noiselessly. One day you’re on the big screen, living life large, and then all of a sudden, it’s a few years later and your career’s already on the decline and you find out you’ve had no control. 

Chris feels like any day now he’s going to be exposed as a fraud. As though this is not really the way his life is supposed to go and he’s just waiting for someone to burst in and tell him what he needs to know, but he’s afraid it’s something awful he doesn’t want to hear. This is pretty much why he avoids paparazzi and press like the plague.

“Sorry.” April’s face is red. “I just have a lot of feelings on the subject.”

“What you have is a lot of gumption.” Chris manages to joke.

Zach mouths the word ‘gumption’ with a roll of the eyes. 

Chris finds himself smiling. 

It’s not that he’s expecting life to suddenly explode full of exciting opportunities. It’s not always the case that things will fall into your lap or that life will be great. But if he wants to have a good life, he has to build that reality for himself, create the life he wants. Make an opening and _go._

******

Of course they’re stuck walking down the steps towards the theatre’s back entrance together.

Chris watches under downcast eyelashes as they descend the small concrete staircase. Zach is resolute in his blankness. Even now, his face is half-obscured by oversized glasses, dark hair combed endearingly to the side. He’s like an old photograph, unmoving, unchanged over time.

It’s one of those awkward silences that stretch for as long as you have to keep walking next to the person ignoring you. 

Chris can’t leave it like this and when they reach the landing he grasps Zach’s shoulder. The small touch makes Zach whirl around, eyes raw underneath a dark frown.

“We shouldn’t be seen together.” He says in a pretentious voice.

“We’re going to the same place.” Chris mimics the tone, smiling tight. “Look, Zach,” This is so difficult to get out. “It’s not my fault okay? Let’s not stay angry over this… _Thing._ ”

“Oh. I get it.” Zach’s words push aside Chris’s in one clean sweep. “You thought it was a lie.”

“It’s not—”

“It _is_ true.” Zach looks at him then, with a pain so plain in his eyes it’s impossible to deny. “But I guess I can understand it. Why you just sat there and let them make a fool of me.”

“Zach,” Chris can scarcely breathe. “I didn’t.”

“Sure you did.” The floodgates have opened, giving way to a flow of unspoken truths. “They made it easy and I don’t exactly blame you.” 

Those brown eyes slide away to glare at the floor. “It must have been such a relief. Going back to your normal life and hell, getting better offers than ever before...”

“Huh,” Chris snorts, blinks rapidly at the pooling tears in his eyes. He may have been the one to break things off, but that doesn’t mean Zach gets to belittle what little they had. 

“You think it’s easy for a guy who’s always been _‘normal’_ to walk away from the one person who made him special?”

“Don’t say that to me.” Zach’s voice becomes detached, frozen amongst the angry flushed skin of his cheeks and nose. “You’re straight again now.”

“Wow,” Chris grunts, feeling helpless, attacked. “And they say it gets _better._ ”

Zach looks at him then, hard, face glazed over with an acute type of disappointment that would hurt too much to name. 

“The truth is I want to be sick of you.” He tilts his head, lips pressed together in the way that sometimes happens when you’re half-ready to burst into laughter or cry. “But I’m not, yet.”

They linger, not quite connected by eyes or conversation, but tied together just the same. The only thing to look forward to is if they pull in opposite directions, as time goes by, the knot will unravel. If they let this go they could be free.

Chris tries to will away the lump of anxiety crawling up his throat at the idea. The gulp of air Chris takes in audible. He gently places the palm of his hand against Zach’s chest.

“Don’t.”

The thump-thump-thump of the heart under his fingers is simultaneously terrifying and something sorely missed. 

“I’m so stupid.” Zach murmurs, sounding so very alone, having endured this all on his own. “To have loved you.”

“I loved you too.”

The corners of Zach’s lips curve up, like tearing open a smile. “Well that’s the difference, I guess.”

He reaches up and fingers close around Chris’s wrist as his hand is carefully pulled away. They stand there, both watching their linked hands before Zach lets go. The sight rips Chris’s heart in two.

“To the world, we weren’t together.” Zach says, “So that must mean I still love you. I never stopped.”

Zach opens the entrance to the low-lit hallway, the same one Chris stood in, waiting for auditions. It seems wide and encompassing now as it swallows the remnants of their conversation like sound being sucked into space. Zach holds the heavy door open just for a second, his pale hand spread against the door slipping away as soon as Chris walks through. 

Chris wants to say something —anything— to fix this.

 _“Don’t.”_ He says again. Grabs Zach’s hand.

Zach lets him for just a moment, and the door clangs shut loud and metallic.

“I can’t.” Zach replies, and his hand slips from Chris’s grip as he walks away without another word or glance.

Even when he’s hating Chris, Zach is so damned polite.

The simple indifference is what hurts the most.

It’s this moment that it strikes him. This is exactly how Zach has felt all this time. As if they are strangers passing by in one’s peripheral vision, ships in the night, sharp spikes of shadows pushed away by what had come to light.

The reason Chris broke it off is because of what They said. The ominous ‘They’ in every conversation, in every random bit of information or gossip that floated by. A few years ago the world believed that Zachary Quinto was in love with him. But that was only half the truth. The other half was that Chris wasn’t just a victim of ill-placed affection. He cared. So much. And they were together for months before his manager and ye old evil agency swept it all under a rug. 

Chris came away clean. Well, you know, except for the whole no more Jack Ryan movie franchise thing.

And Zach? 

He got left on the battlefield, guts ripped out, insides smeared across every website and TV show. And because he’s always been one to control his own life, he never once told the reporters they were wrong.

After all this time.

And now they’ve opened old wounds and Zach’s been torn apart again.

The whole truth is crushing.

No one has or ever will love him as much as Zach did, that first time. Never again in that same way. And he _needs_ this Thing, needs to believe that Zach hasn’t stopped.

Because without any doubt, Chris knows he still loves Zach too. Loves him like he’s never going to love anyone else. 

There is no one else.

It’s just the two of them, feeling the same regrets, sharing the same secrets. They are the same long twisting road, going home in one incredible rush.

******

“Hey. I bought dinner.” Chris greets when Dominique gets in the apartment door. She looks surprised, coming over to the table and setting down her purse.

“Wow,” Dominique looks amused. “Sure you bought enough?”

There’s probably food enough to feed two families instead of the two of them. Halfway through the meal, he catches Dominique looking at him, smirking slightly behind her chopsticks.

“What?” Chris relents.

“Nothing. I just think about you.” She smiles, and reaches over to put a plaintive hand against his cheek. “If you’re doing alright.”

Her thumb softly paints a frame underneath one of his eyes, smoothing out the slight hollows there.

“I am.” He says, realizing it’s true.

“Still kinda surly though. But you look a lot better, Chris.” 

“Never better than you.” He says, and that delights her. She laughs, pats him perfunctorily and then goes back to poking at dinner.

They eat in relatively peaceful silence. If it weren’t for the fast, furiously spinning thoughts of Zach, he’d think this relationship with Dominique was on the mend. Now that he thinks of himself with this woman, an amused smile comes unbidden. It’s funny because it’s so absurd.

“I’m going to Paris this weekend.” She tells him absentmindedly. 

“Third time this year.” Chris points out, clearing his throat. “Must be special.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Well, no. Sometimes, I can think about a place I’ve been and can miss it so much it’s painful. But then I realize it’s actually the memories and the people I miss. I could care less about going back to France.”

Dominique jokes all the time that her passport should have the airport listed as her address. She spends so much time away from her home that Chris agrees, though it’s not like he’s ever had a problem with it before. He’s always liked his privacy enough that being with someone not around all the time had been easy. 

Thinking about it now though, he realizes that there is an underlying regret to her words. And like the sun peeking out from behind thunderclouds, he understands why she tried so hard to make _them_ work. Make a home. He’d been looking at it all wrong. Theirs was a relationship managed in single episode encounters, both of them a guest starring love interest who never added much to the plot.

Dominique needs a Leading Man.

“Here’s the thing I don’t get.” Chris starts, looking down. “Can he love you better than I could?”

“Who?” Dominique sweeps a lock of hair over her shoulder. It’s gotten so long.

“ _Any_ he.”

She stares at him for a while, like she’s making sure her stupid ex-boyfriend really _did_ ask her for advice. But like Karl Urban, the girl’s incapable of taking a bad photo. Chris will remember how she looks in this moment, beautiful and kind, even now as their paths finally diverge.

“No one can learn to love someone _better._ ” She says. “We just have to find the people who let us love them completely, in the only way we know how.”

Because people can’t change, not really. The way you’ve learned to love yourself is the blueprint for how you’re going to love someone else. It’s not something you can rework each time you meet someone new, better. And even if you could, you’d just end up loving both yourself and that someone less.

“I suck.” Chris concludes, and Dominique snorts, laughing into her drink.

“I kind of had a sneaking suspicion. Are you gonna sit there and pretend or are you gonna tell me more about _’work?’”_ It’s never been more evident that Dominique Piek knows more about him than he’d thought. 

He’s glad.

“Uhrghh,” Chris replies, wondrously inarticulate. “ _Work_ talk? You owe me at least…” He counts out on his fingers, “Four souvenirs for this.”

“Four packs of your fav Parisian coffee, I can do.”

Love is a book already written. It comes so much easier if you just read and hold on until the end.

 

TBC…


	6. Chapter 6

Okay, so it’s never been a secret that Chris Pine isn’t as laid-back as he’s made out to be. 

That’s just a role, a part to play. Simple even, when people don’t expect any different. As cliché as it sounds, it’s just so much easier to pretend to be something he’s not. Except this makes navigating real life way harder than it has to be; because Chris is always second-guessing, always replaying that line, always thinking about how things _should_ have gone. 

Some days he wishes he didn’t care so much. Then he wouldn’t have to act like he didn’t care at all, which – let’s be honest – has gotten him into more trouble than he’d want to admit.

The dark graffiti-covered walls of the subway tunnel rush past the window, like bits of text on dark screens, like credits that roll by too fast with names he’d like to remember but can’t because it’s not his time to get off. 

Chris scratches at the remnants of donut jelly on the knee of his pants, sugar flaking away under a thumbnail cut too close. He scrolls through the stream of emails and texts on his phone with the other hand. The early morning train is filled with smells and sounds that used to make him nervous because they told a story of something he didn’t understand. As if he’d clicked on a show already halfway over and he was just pretending to understand the plot.

But now their presence is a kind of comfort: the fingerprints of previous passengers smudged into each surface, bits of trash that always seems to roll out from under the seats, that one crazy guy who keeps talking even if no one’s listening. Layers of stuff. Layers and layers that used to make Chris feel overwhelmed but not anymore. Life builds up on itself here. 

Life builds up everywhere as long as you let it stick.

It’s strange, because when he’d first moved to New York he was trying to get away, start fresh. Get out of that old LA mindset and become fully realized, a true thespian, doing the roles he was made for instead of faking through the ones he wasn’t. Only the fact of the matter is that Chris has a sneaking suspicion he’s always known who he was. And all of this over thinking? It’s due to plain old self-loathing.

Chris is strangely learning to deal with it. Growing a beard has seemed to help.

******

There’s a special brand of paranoia, a sort of prickly sensation like pins and needles all over your brain, reserved _specifically_ for those times when you walk in on a conversation that was definitely about you.

Chris is fairly intimate with the feeling. He quickly shuts the novel he’s got cracked open on his thumb.

“Places, people!” It seems April, the young volunteer, has finally found her motivation, or maybe just run out of apps. She’s herding milling actors to and fro.

“Hi, Chris. Bye, Chris!” She waves cheerfully, dragging behind her Maestro who looks bemused, reading sheet music that’s been changed out for the fifth time.

Chris takes two steps forwards and one step back trying to figure out where to go but someone catches his arm.

“They’re doing the opening rundown. Won’t need _us_ yet,” Blondie grins, cocking his head to one side.

Stuck in the sudden limbo, Chris nearly thumbs open the novel hanging from his fingers again. But Blondie has different ideas and somehow they’re on their way to Starbucks for a coffee run. Because, let’s face it, the crap they serve at the theatre isn’t gonna cut it on a Monday at seven in the morning.

The barista calls out for the order pick up. The drinks are labelled with their character names, because being an actor means you can use secret code names and have an excuse to wear douche-sized sunglasses and any of those stragglers who _thinks_ they may have spotted ‘That guy from the new Star Wars’ will think twice.

As Blondie rattles off about this and that and gossip about so-n-so, they pop the lids off steaming cups of coffee and grab stirrers from the counter. It’s been weeks and weeks now but it occurs to Chris that he doesn’t know his co-workers at all. 

“Okay, so we’re going over Laszlo’s motivation, getting into personal experience, and that’s when he says— Get this: _‘I found myself in a pattern of being attracted to people who were somehow unavailable.’_ ” 

Blondie snorts.

“I just, what does that even mean? Have you _seen_ the guys he’s dated? There’s a simpler phrase for that. Trying too hard.”

“No, I haven’t _seen_ any—” Chris doesn’t even know _who_ he’s talking about. “What, do you search JustJared for all your fellow cast members’ business?” He asks, annoyed that not everyone shares his definition of _invasion of privacy._

Blondie waves him off, taking a deep sip of coffee. “Forget that. Seriously, you need to hear this. Anyway, I get that this play is a big deal for the community, I do. God knows how many closet cases are still out there. Fuck, when I was in college...” He trails off and catches Chris’s eye with a strange sort of glint which, unfortunately, goes right over Chris’s head.

“But Zach’s kind of deluded, don’t you think?” Blondie runs a hand through his not-so blond locks and quotes with even more vehemence, like this has all got him worked up into a seriously thick lather, “‘ _Somehow unavailable.’_ That’s the nice way of saying unrequited.”

Chris bites the rim of his cup, rolling it between his teeth. What was once soothing and warm has now become tar, churning in the pit of his stomach.

“What are you even talking about,” He manages to breathe out gravelly behind a thick swallow of tasteless coffee.

“That you’re acting like you’ve got a target on your back just because Zach’s getting tossed around a bit. You don’t have to feel sorry. It’s not your fault.” Blondie smiles victoriously, as if what he’s saying is completely sympathetic; the magic words to fix Chris’s mood. 

Blondie lets out a little laugh, “You know how many men have crushed on _me?_ I mean, at first I was flattered, if not embarrassed, but now— well, it comes with the territory in this case.”

It’s like being doused in freezing water. He should’ve worn socks today.

“Hey,” Chris replies, his voice feels like it’s coming from somewhere far away, a place he’d locked up tight and forgotten because it kept saying the things he didn’t want to hear. “We’re all actors, alright? I really don’t give a shit.”

“Yeah,” Blondie laughs, “But some people are _actorrrrs._ ”

And it’s been a long time coming but Chris finally realizes this is his stop. 

This is that humbling experience he’s been terrified of experiencing. A moment like a monolith, looming overhead which seemed so insurmountable, right here in his lap in a random Starbucks. He’s spent so much time putting himself down for things out of his control— he’s such a control freak— It’s about time to stop caring about things that don’t matter and protect the few things that do.

“Fuck man,” Chris says, and tosses his coffee away. “Save the drama for the movies.”

******

They’re in the middle of a scene, trying to get the lines down tight. They’re always in the middle of a scene, but things always seem to end up more wrong than right.

Zach delivers the next bit of soulful dialogue and then an unmistakable eyebrow jumps.

Most of the time Chris knows Zach would describe himself as coming off a little too swarthy. It’s the dark features, he’d say, the sort of attractive yet prominent scowl as he sips his stage drink, acting debonair. In reply, Chris would offer him a filtered cigar. Zach would crack a grin, creases folding up like gift-wrapping at the sides of his eyes. Tell Chris to shut up and get it right. 

He got it wrong a little far too often. 

_“Can I tell you a story, Rick?”_ He asks, thrown backwards in time to that absolutely _awful_ audition. Another great addition to his list of Saturday Night Live skit ideas.

But those are words from a long time ago and all there is, is now. Zach tilts his head, says _“Has it got a wow finish?”_

It shouldn’t make his heart thump, but it does. Chris kind of wants to laugh, because there are hearts in the eyes of a few other actors, watching in the background. 

The hours have crawled by. It’s getting to be one of those long work nights. Reaching the point where it’s just when things start to get unbearable and there looks like no end in sight. Chris reminds himself of too-tight pants and colour-coded shirts. Overeating and working out in order to put the hip in starship. Early morning wake up calls and late night crashes. Reading scraps of top secret scripts whilst gulping down about a hundred coffees to fill in the gaps. Trying to fill gigantic shoes and being overshadowed, but still coming out re-branded as shiny, loved, new. 

If he could do that with Zach, then they can do this too.

It’s strange how love works.

It’s strange in the way that it doesn’t really ‘work.’ Love is kind of a Thing that spends its time existing for lack of something better. Weird how such a simple feeling can make you ride a rollercoaster of emotions and fool you into thinking that things were always going to stay on track.

Sure, this isn’t the first time love has been described this way, but it’s good enough. He’s no Lothario, but Chris knows what it’s like to ride through slow; slow enough to observe things in detail, commit things to memory, get bored. And he knows what it’s like to go soaring through fast; so fast that your mind can be screaming at you, _‘The important things are passing by!’_

Love looks fun at the get-go, or scary. Or Intriguing, or like it’s gonna make you sick. Either way, he’s gotta get on board because he’d hate to be left behind.

Chris has been through a lot and he’s not even that old. He’s got one of those looks though (when he’s not flipping off the cameras). An old look. It’s only because Chris experiences a greater deal that he lets on. Or at least, what the media doesn’t know? He’s a total iceberg. If anyone knew, it’d sink ‘em. You could even say he runs a little deep.

Well, to be fair, only _one_ person would probably say that, and he’s not talking to Chris except through lines.

Is that gonna be the story of us? Chris thinks desperately, trying not to let the real thoughts bleed through. Always reciting lines, never saying what we really mean?

But just because they haven’t said anything original... doesn’t mean they have something else to say.

The thing about it is, you can be so in love and ready forever and have a brand new movie trilogy on the way. And love’s strange because you can be so excited about that, about one moment, be happy, and then your heart skips a beat and everything’s suddenly on a completely different track. Except the transition is so smooth, so continuous, that it’s easy not to notice when things change. But he’s always tried not to get too worked up, make big deals over the stuff that’s unavoidable. Tried, is the operative word.

Love’s strange in the way things change and stay the same. Because he still loves Zach.

And the way Zach snorts into his glass at Chris’s gormless silence, the way he rubs a palm across that dark stubble and into that long black hair, the way he taps his temple and is like, “Get it together, man—”

 _“I don’t know the finish yet,”_ Chris acts back. He licks his lower lip and then chews on it for just a second, fighting the urge to whirl around so he can have just a second of reprieve. 

“Go on, tell it.” Zach says.

“Something tells me it’s about you and me,” Chris adlibs.

There goes that eyebrow in all its pretentious glory.

“You and I.” Zach corrects, as if he’s part of the grammar police. He revoked that licence the moment he wrote on the internet. But the fact that he’s still trying to fix Chris means things aren’t exactly broke.

“Wrong!” Chris grins. Can’t help it. Everything makes an alarming amount of sense. 

All those nameless people writing crap about them in articles they won’t even read— They don’t know a thing. Same to all those fair-weather friends, just pretending they were there when all they really wanted was hot news. Mass media doesn’t matter. They’re all just fast-scrolling credits he doesn’t need to know. Not when he’s staring at the big picture.

I love you, he thinks, biting his lip again, brows drawing in close. I hated everything else so much that it made me hate us too. 

Does he still paint Zach’s face blue? 

Because Zach’s looking at him with those warm brown eyes, eyes that still shine with kindness like the light of stars long since snuffed out. Still bright.

He’d been caring about the wrong things, running away from the ugly truth when it _wasn’t ugly._ Not even a little bit. Not even at all. Every one of those emails and texts he’d ignored from loved ones, deleted along with the bad, were words of encouragement, carrying that one underlying message he’s sorely needed to hear: _You can come back, Chris. You can be you._

They’re just actors, aren’t they? Just tragicomedies in the making, just two people who keep falling into the same space, side by side. 

Chris swallows. His chin sinks low as if the rock that just plummeted through the bottom of his stomach is attempting to pull him inside out with this strange, simple feeling. It’s so fucking unavoidable. It’s always been completely unavoidable, this love. Because, God, opening night is just hours away and he’s never been in so deep.

******

The center lights are bright. The floor’s dunked into a circular pool of white, sinking all the shadows away to leave Chris Pine behind.

That’s his cue. 

Sweat prickles along the lines of his palms. The auditorium is bathed in darkness, silence stretching out thin so that the usually faint hidden sounds become amplified; the hum of the lights, an errant cough or muttering. The stray fluttering of a programme as someone disinterestedly tries to figure out why they’re even here.

This is when those pesky self-criticisms start swirling in his gut. 

The stage kind of does weird things to a person. It’s different than shooting short disconnected scenes in front of JJ and that one camera guy whose chicken sandwich makes your stomach growl and turn at the same time. Different than leaving the movie set and rejoining real life. Waiting months until you’re three roles richer, blond hair grown out and long gone, watching your face on the silver screen and only seeing every little pore you poured relentlessly over back when you were eighteen. It’s different because here you’re not projected, you gotta project. And there’s no time for living inside your head because everything you think will be seen, heard. Left out in the air instead of on the cutting room floor. 

It’s standard knowledge that movies make stars, but in theatre he becomes the moon; the only shining thing floating in a starless city sky. Alone in the dark. 

Chris is standing in the middle of the stage in the middle of a play in the middle of a very strange bend in his life. Actually, it’s starting to look like _everything’s_ a bend and life’s more or less about going around in circles. Some days are filled with that dizzying effect from spinning around. Some days it’s that weight of being stuck in orbit, a force too strong to break.

But at least he’s going somewhere. 

Zach enters, stage left. The spotlight rushes to meet him. Paints away the dark line of shadows across those brown eyes.

Maybe it was always going to be like this. Chris can’t really see how it could have gone any other way. That there’s no such thing as an Ex-Thing. Things _must_ go somewhere. For once they’re both in the same place at the same time. It’s up to Chris to reach out and hold on. Because the thing about acting? Repetition’s key. After enough tries you get good enough to let yourself be vulnerable and maybe even feel something real.

Was he vulnerable enough just now? Looking into Zach’s face, dropping his chin as Zach takes hold of his shoulders and says _“If that plane leaves the ground and you’re not with him, you’ll regret it.”_

All of a sudden the words come to him, and he’s not talking through lines anymore (because that’s just ridiculous now that he thinks about it). He’s been sounding like a man who’s trying to convince himself of something he doesn’t believe in his heart. And if he lets life parallel _Casablanca_ then he’s doomed to be melancholy for years to come. Been there, done that. 

Chris takes a deep breath and when he speaks, his voice punches the air. 

“ _But what about us?”_

And Zach laughs. It’s laughter that reminds Chris of moments he won’t forget any time soon. 

_“Hey.”_ Zach lets his hands fall away from their tight grip and Chris doesn’t have time to unravel from the tight ball of tension he’s been crushed up into. Zach pulls Chris’s hand until his palm is pressed up against Zach’s chest. _“We’ll always have Paris.”_

There is a pause that floats out into the auditorium and then explodes in a shower of _this-is-what-I-want_ when Zach’s pulse hammers through Chris’s fingertips.

Zach’s heartbeat slams again and Chris’s fingers curl in between shirt buttons, nails biting deep.  
He watches Zach grit his teeth. All the time that has spanned between this moment and the last smashes together in a collision of equal degrees love, desire, regret, and then love again. 

Each crash deafens him, like two hands coming together in thunderous applause. 

All their unspoken arguments and confessions that have spanned the days leading up to this instant seem like only a distant whistle, a weak sounding Star Trek theme.

 _“I said I would never leave you,”_ Chris says.

It’s no use. He’ll never get out of his own head. But he doesn’t care anymore, doesn’t care if it all shows up in his face, in his voice, or in the tabloids on the front page. Chris wants to spill the beans right here and now. Wants to say:

Zach. If sharing a celebrity couple name with you is the worst thing that ever happens to me, I’ll blame myself for lucking out. We’re pulling a goddamned Brangelina. Please give this one more try.

 _“Don’t give me that look.”_ Zach’s voice is so gentle Chris feels choked. _“You’ve always been right here.”_

His eyes dance across Zach’s face, not knowing where he should look, fearful of what Zach sees when he looks at him like that.

Zach doesn’t let him go, doesn’t let him run from the scene that’s been waiting for them all this time. He holds Chris’s hand so hard against him that Chris doesn’t know where Zach ends and he begins.

 _“Right **here.** ”_ Zach says loud and clear into the pocket of space between their faces.

It’s so fucking unfair. How could Chris have ever seriously turned this away? Zach’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. 

If there’s ever been a time when two people should kiss, it’s this second. 

And Chris lurches forward, but Zach holds him steady, has always been there to hold him steady. Keeps Chris from breaking character, breaking hearts, by holding him by the cheek so gently. Chris licks his lips and Zach runs fingers through his short hair. If there’s any audience reaction, Chris won’t dare tune in.


	7. Chapter 7

After the show, Chris is in such a breathlessly good mood upon opening the apartment door that seeing Domi on the couch hanging out with some strange dude doesn’t faze him. 

“Woah,” Chris lets out a gasp that transforms into laughter. “Sorry!”

“Chris!” Dominique is startled and a bit embarrassed, he can tell. 

It’s endearing as hell. 

Chris squints, can feel the side of his mouth curling up into a smirk. “There’s a sock on the doorknob for these kinds of things, you know...”

Domi’s flailing one fist in annoyance while simultaneously trying to stuff her red face into a throw pillow, “CHRIS!”

The grin that spreads across her lips when she comes up for air is simply breathtaking. 

He’s got the look of an actor, the guy on the couch, with a sort of nondescript style and a precarious balance of idealism and rejection riding on his face. An actor in between roles. Hair in the in between too, roots pushing through the blond they throw on every Hollywood guy’s head to make them just wasp-y enough. 

Chris sees himself in this guy. There was a time he wouldn’t have wanted to, would have turned the other way and tried to say _‘I’m not like that. No one knows what I’m all about.’_ Would have tried to ignore the fact that he’s the same as everyone else. It seems so stupid now, in retrospect. It’s only because he’s the same that he’s got it so good.

Chris sticks his hand out. “Hey man, sorry about that. Chris Pine.”

The guy nods and side-eyes Dominique while shaking hands, as if asking for permission. She just shrugs and gestures between them.

“Chris O’Brian.”

Chris almost laughs. He’s in a sea of Chris’s. It’s like being free all of a sudden. Every Chris a different facet of himself.

Dominique gets the joke. Her smile’s a mile wide in a rush of excitement. “So? How did it go?”

“Night’s not over,” Chris replies easily, even though when he walked in the door he was ready to crash. He presses his lips together to keep from answering her grin with one of his own. They’re finally going their separate ways. One of them has to be the serious one. It’s been Dominique up until now and Chris’s turn is long overdue.

He gives up and lets the helplessly happy smile pull his cheeks until they hurt. “Only came to change shirts.”

“You sure?” 

“Yeahhhh,” Chris drags the word out so Domi and O’Brian can hear still hear him while walking into the other room, towards his suitcase. He’s been packed for days.

He’ll find someplace else to stay. Everything’s gonna be okay.

When he breaks out into the cool noisy air, suitcase rolling behind him, Chris Pine exhales. He wanders, loving New York like he never has before. Thinks about riding the subway all night, or even exploring all the popular touristy spots he’s steered clear. It doesn’t matter where. All the tangled ends of his life have suddenly unravelled towards places he’s never been but wants to go.

And he eventually calls Zach.

******

“So this is where you live.”

They’re past handshakes and fist bumps and awkward half hugs, which, really, are filled more with shoulder and elbow than actual compassion. Still, it takes a great amount of Chris’s willpower to keep his arms at his sides and not touch Zach at all. Maybe if he could just hold on then they won’t let this go.

Zach leans against the doorjamb, looking absolutely beat but cheeks glowing faintly with the remnants of opening night’s never-ending smiles.

“Yuuup,” Zach pops the word out between pursed lips as he backs away and lets Chris enter the small apartment. It’s only one awkward second before Zach’s cocking his head in judgment. 

“Okay, I know on the phone I said you could crash here— _I must’ve been drunk_ — but a full suitcase, Chris?”

“Drunk on all your admirers and adoring praise, sure.” Chris evades, pointing to the far side of the room. “Come on. You got piles of flowers! What about me?”

Zach snorts. “You’re awful.”

“I know.” Chris agrees in a sort of quiet grunt and their tenuous camaraderie slams to a halt. He takes a deep breath.

“Stop,” Zach says faster. His face looks pinched. It always looks pinched when he’s cutting Chris off from apologizing. 

That’s not what this is.

“Zach—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Zach throws up a hand and waves away the issue, marching to his little kitchenette. Opens and closes a couple cabinets, scowls and then trains his features into something placid. His gentle hand settles on the rim of a potted plant, still wrapped in its gift cellophane. Zach turns it slowly as if deciding, when the morning comes, which side should get more sun. 

“Zach...”

Chris is beginning to blame himself for bringing too much baggage through the door.

“You come over here for some kind of victory lap?” Zach says this in a way which sounds like he’s said it before, “’Cause, we’ve got about fifty more shows to do and if it’s all the same to you, I don’t want to work through the fucking heartache again.”

Chris chews the inside of his cheek. Moves towards the counter.

“Get on the couch, Pine.” Zach dismisses him.

“Alright.”

“Good.”

******

It’s halfway through the night when Zach walks out from his bedroom and leans overtop the couch.

Chris is startled awake, jerking back at Zach’s looming shadow and then groaning. He rubs at his eyes, legs uncurling from their sprawl. 

“What the hell...?”

Zach is cautiously looking anywhere but Chris’s face. “We gave it up, you know.”

Chris’s heart jumps, and then it thumps and slams against his ribs. He’s wide awake in an instant, biting his lip, watching Zach in the darkness. The blur of sleep slips away, New York’s glow washing through the windows and finding its way in by sliding across the walls and floor as long blocky sheets of shadow and light. 

“It was never over,” Chris says slowly.

“Fine,” Zach replies, resigned. “I’ll amend that statement. _You_ gave it up.”

He did. He’s not gonna deny it. He’d let everything go. 

Okay but, see, the thing is? He may have ignored ‘it’ but he was never going to completely _forget_ ‘it.’ Not the time spent together, not what they shared. Still share. It’s a part of his life that can’t be rewritten. It’s there, for everyone to read. Page 62 of the Enquirer too, if they really wanted. 

He used to think about Zach, sometimes. But that was just practice. 

Because now he’s more than okay with thinking about Zach, all the time.

Zach knees him in the thigh, kind of hard actually, and Chris quickly shuffles into a sitting position. He feels transparent, like how he sometimes sees himself when he’s in the spotlight. A moon shining down through too-pale skin that just won’t get a tan. Unearthing veins and shadows and scars. So very human but also just the small beginnings of his long list of flaws. He’s been waiting for all of this to get better, to find a happy end, but it’s becoming damn obvious _everything starts with a break up._

Maybe it had to be this way. They had to part in order to start all over again.

Hasn’t he been saying he could really catch a break?

Zach’s arms are crossed as he sits down beside him and Chris doesn’t miss the sudden exhilarating rush of body heat that ghosts across his skin, just enough to give goosebumps. It’s a bit cool out here in the main room. Zach’s wearing a ridiculous flimsy white v-neck t-shirt and shorts. Chris has got his favourite cardigan on to ward off the chill. What are they even doing here anyway? LA’s calling.

“So,” Zach starts off low, voice deep with sleepiness and foreboding, “What are you, Chris, some kind of latent homosexual?” 

Every single one of Chris’s nerves flare to life. It’s hard to swallow, his heartbeat is too hard, too swift. His whole chest is taken up by this feeling, this need, this want. Fingertips tingling. 

Chris is breathless as he says, “I’m told I do a great impression.”

“Is that so,” Zach whispers bitterly, chin dipping down in a sort of nod of acceptance. He turns to Chris then. The city glitter’s falling into Zach’s eyes and casting him in the blue light of midnight. The side of Zach’s mouth curls up. “Thought _I_ was the only one who’d laughed at that particular joke.”

Chris puts a hand on his shoulder.

And somehow that’s all it takes, because Zach reaches up and holds Chris by the chin, gently, and leans forward to press a kiss against the side of his mouth.

Chris exhales through his nose, can feel the hot rush of air across his upper lip.

“Kissing’s not in your contract.” Every word is spoken against his skin.  
   
“Mmnn, no, nope.” Chris clears his throat, grips Zach’s shoulder tightly. “Haven’t you heard? Got new management.”

Zach pulls back just a fraction, eyelids still swept low. He looks tired, but earnest. So genuine. His thumb strokes along Chris’s cheek once, twice. “I’m starting to think you’re bad for my career.”

Chris tilts his head, their noses bumping just slightly as he pushes forward. He can feel it when Zach’s eyebrow lifts, feels like he’s going insane when Zach’s simple touch becomes just a bit more rough, holding him in place. So Chris pulls him forward instead and then they’re kissing and the nape of Chris’s neck connects with the back of the couch. In one blinding moment, everything turns pitch black. Zach shifts to lie atop him and it’s the unexpected warmth that does Chris in, as he covers Chris’s mouth with his own. 

His breath catches and he squeezes Zach’s shoulder blades. 

There’s so much he wants to say but the thoughts speed by much too fast for him to pick just one thing. It’s always been like that, so Chris ends up not saying much at all except for silly crap that makes him look like kind of a dick. Zach’s hand glides down his side and Chris shudders with an almost painful spike of pleasure. Maybe he’s actually more of an asshole.

Doesn’t even matter. 

He turns his face into the side of Zach’s jaw, mouths at the 5o’clock shadow coming in way too early, taking gasping breaths and holding them in. Zach pulls Chris’s hand to press against his chest and Chris remembers with staggering alacrity the first and only time they’d gone to bed together. 

It was in another place, another time. Far away, in LA, where it was hot and sticky in tuxedos after doing a presenter gig at the Golden Globes. It was ridiculous the way Zach still thought lighting the fire pit on his patio was a good idea. 

Chris remembers Zach’s skin, awash in the orange glow, dark hair falling across his forehead, strands and skin stuck together. Still _slightly_ too short apparently, because Zach wouldn’t quit complaining every five minutes. 

He remembers Zach pulling him to his feet and walking him backwards into the house, Chris’s pulse rate going through the roof with those dark eyes staring him down. He’s always had a thing for people opposite to himself. Zach had tugged his tie loose and then brought Chris’s hand up to it. And Chris had just rested his palm there, index finger slotted underneath the silk knot, too afraid to do anything else.

As he gathered up the courage to pull Zach’s tie open, Chris kept thinking: _Will I regret this?_

Zach had laughed at his face in that really annoyingly endearing way then folded his hand tenderly overtop Chris’s knuckles. 

“You won’t regret this in the morning, will you?” Zach asked, teasingly, as though making it a joke before anything happened would make it untrue if it did. Too bad Chris has never been much of a comedian. They were always a step away from being on the same page. 

_Maybe I would,_ Chris had thought, suddenly terrified with all his fraying fears tying tightly into this one simple knot. He might not today or tomorrow, but it could happen sometime soon, and then he’d be living with guilt for the rest of his life.

“Come on,” Zach whispered and kissed Chris so achingly good it left the stars in his eyes. He pressed in close to Chris and thumbed his belt buckle. “It gets better, I promise.” 

They stared at each other for the longest time before Zach muttered into his ear those three damning little words and Chris was nodding frantically, yanking out that offensive tie and undoing the top button of Zach’s shirt, finger hanging in the apex of the deep V.

And then they were undressing each other, kind of like how they were doing right now.

Chris’s fingers tunnel through Zach’s thick long hair, clutching as Zach slides his hands from under Chris’s cardigan to undo the buttons.

“Hey,” Chris laughs in a way that almost sounds anxious under his breath, “Be careful, this is my fav.”

“Shut up,” Zach replies between kisses, yanking to make his point. “It’s hideous.”

“Okay,” Chris bites Zach’s lip and pulls him back in. “Okay, whatever. Fine. Sure, yeah,” He gasps. “ _Good._ ”

He hopes Zach knows what he so desperately wants to say. Wants to know if he can stay, and knows that Zach wants to ask him to leave, but can’t. Neither of them ever asks the right question. They’re too in love to bother with the whys anymore. 

Besides, things left unspoken are better heard in the dark.

******

So...

Chris is not sure about this, but people must have some kind of sixth sense when the Lead and Love Interest have totally slept together.

The smug look hides in the bright, knowing smiles of his co-workers at the next show, and the next, and the last. There’s a great pun in all of this somewhere but right now, this moment? Everything’s really just a play on words.

“You’re reading this book?” 

Chris asks, holding up the paperback as Zach enters the bedroom after their final performance. It’s late, so late at night, and they’re both tired from smiling too much. It doesn’t seem real, that it’s all finally over. In fact, Chris is starting to believe he’s left a part of himself on the stage.

Zach doesn’t say anything. Only comes close enough to snatch the book from Chris and whap him softly on the forehead with the cover, like disciplining a really cute dog. At least, Chris hopes that’s how he sees it. He rubs at the spot that’ll likely turn red. Zach leans in and presses a soft kiss there.

“I saw you reading it a couple times during rehearsal.” He leans away and shrugs. “Wanted to know.”

Chris catches Zach around the waist and pulls him back in and the kiss they share is comfortable, caring. They know each other. 

“It’s actually kind of terrible.” Zach complains the moment Chris lets him up for air.

“Yeah.” Chris bites his lip and then grins. “Not enough aplomb.”

Zach’s eyebrow jumps up, lips press together as if he’s trying to stop himself from smiling.

Who’re they kidding? Chris wants to say, but it’s looking a lot like Zach already knows what he’s gonna say.

This has always been the story about us.

******

“White’s Law,” Chris explains, waving hands in the air as the attendant checks his bags for a flight to LA.

“Can you believe this trash?” Zach asks, smacking a hand dramatically against the tabloid magazine like the diva he is.

“Dunno.” Chris squints to read the title, scratching at the wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. “It’s worth at _least_ the two dollars you spent on it…”

Zach slaps him in the hip with the article. “My manager handed it to me this morning.”

“Think it’s a warning?”

It seems everyone thinks they’ve broken up. A publicity stunt, that’s what _Pinto_ really was.

“More like a suggestion.” Zach says this time, holding the newsprint upside down, as if the real truth will come seeping out of its hiding place from amongst the garbage.

“You know it always starts with a break up, right?” Chris’s mouth twists up at the side in a half-smile.

“Yeah…” Zach scrunches his nose. “About that. See, those two people we were, on stage?”

He puts his hand on Chris’s shoulder, pulling him close so he can speak directly in his ear. “They never really got together.”

Chris holds his breath.

“Wouldn’t that make it impossible to break up?” Zach cocks his head and smirks like he’s in on some grand scheme.

“So when you think about _them_ ,” Zach rolls the magazine up again, “think about how sad they were then. And how happy _we’re_ going to be now.”

“What? That’s awful.” Chris can’t help but laugh. “We’re going to be miserable.”

“You think?”

“I know.” Chris points over Zach’s shoulder, “Because that dude over there? Got a snapshot of your hat hair. And, uh, your paws all over me.”

“Oh fuck.” Zach replies, eyes darting around and actually looking distressed. It’s so familiar and open and perfect that Chris decides he’ll not worry about what happens later. _Now_ is looking real good.

It only makes sense to remember it with a kiss.

He reaches out and takes Zach’s startled face in between both palms, dragging him until they’re nose to nose and then lips to lips. His head is buzzing with too many adjectives. He hopes Zach can taste each one. It feels like a million bucks.

Zach’s got a sort of stunned and rosy expression when Chris lets him go.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Chris snorts, smirks, bites his lip. It’s only through sheer determination that he _just_ stops himself from looking around wildly for all the paps to flip off. 

Zach’s got the beginnings of a really wonderful smile but Chris pushes him away with a firm shove to the chest. 

“Zip it, man. Just didn’t want to leave without them knowing who’s on top.”

“That hardly says anything.” One eyebrow rises. “A kiss is just a kiss.”

“Not with you.”

It’s everything. 

But that goes without saying. 

Chris spins on his heel and dutifully walks towards the security gates. No way is he buying into this cliché. No way in hell. Because that means he’s _still_ the Love Interest and that’s totally unbelievably unfair considering he’s got the Lead in a blockbuster movie which begins shooting next week. 

“Hey!” 

He glances back and Zach’s by the roped off edge, smile wide and voice just a little watery.

Chris just laughs and makes a shooing motion as if to ward off all the happiness that hits him hard enough to blur everything but the look in Zach’s faraway eyes. Their stares have caught one another across the room, two lights in the dark tied together by a very strong knot. 

“Go!”

He really means _‘I love you.’_

Zach’s got his palm pressed against his chest and he shouts the line that will make Chris smile, for the rest of his life.

“Here’s looking at you, Chris.”

 

END


End file.
